Where Sea Winds Blow
by Das Lieblingsfach
Summary: Through a common series of unfortunate events, their destinies were entwined. Only time would tell if they would be joined, and if a pirate woman could save a former commodore from his own pride. Anamaria/Norrington, Willabeth. Events of DMC revisited.
1. If He Knew

A/N: Alright, just to let everyone know, this is the beginning of what I anticipate to be a VERY LONG story. I am basically rewriting Dead Man's Chest with Anamaria playing a very vital role, as I was extremely disappointed in her absence in the past movies. It also occurred to me that a lot of the "empowered woman" things that Elizabeth did would have made ahellauva lot more sense if they had been done by Anamaria, so that might give a bit of insight as to the direction of this story. This is Dead Man's Chest revisited, with a much cooler leading lady (sorry Elizabeth fans. I hope this won't dissuade you from reading onward.)

Speaking of which- Because of Anamaria playing somewhat of a substitute to Elizabeth, I have yet to decide how much of role Elizabeth with actually be playing in this version of things. Understanding DMC is a challenge in-and-of itself for me, so I can only imagine what rewiring the plot lines will be like. However, I can guarantee a treat for all of those Anamaria fans who missed seeing in her in the past two movies. If you count yourself into this group, I guarantee you'll enjoy this story (or such is my hope).

This first chapter is a prologue to the events in Dead Man's Chest, and basically explains what happened to Anamaria/where she was in the beginning of the movie. Don't forget to let me know what you think of it so far.

Disclaimer- I don't own Pirates, and I'm not making any money of off this. I do kinda wish I owned Johnny Depp, though. =)

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"Its not that impressive of a thing."

Mr. Gibbs had a delightful gift for impassivity, particularly when intoxicated. Given that this state of affairs was somewhat perpetual for him, he often gave the impression of a naturally hard-to-please gent. And despite how much he had grown to admire Anamaria, he wouldn't spare such apathy for her new ship.

Jack wondered if it wasn't, in this case, an attempt to make them both feel better about the _Pearl_ in lieu of Anamaria's seemingly superior _Rising Sun. _What was more, both men knew as well as any of the crew that she could have afforded it, having saved her shares of booty instead of blowing each steal in Tortuga. But what topped the whole thing off was that she commandeered it on her lonesome. That was enough to make any of them feel foolish for ever doubting her abilities on account of her gender. Jack had known from the start that she was not to be underestimated, yet, after her having pulled off such a feat, he realized he had been doing so from the beginning.

"I suppose one can't say so knowingly until one has seen the _Sun_ on the waters. Even so, I would not be hesitant to say she has surpassed us."

Mr. Gibbs scoffed at his Captain's resignation, taking another generous swig from his flask.

"The _Pearl_ is the fastest ship on these waters. You of all people should know that."

Jack could only smirk, focusing his attention on the sight of Anamaria storming around the _Sun_'s deck, forcefully commanding her new crew with the power of a thousand year's experience as Captain. She had had no trouble enlisting any one of them, either.

"A ship's only as good as her Captain, Mr. Gibbs."

* * *

When he had asked her if she would miss the crew she rolled her eyes, sighed, and threw her hands in the air, nothing less than her typical response to his obvious absurdity. Of course she wouldn't miss the crew, she had assured him. She'd have plenty of Mr. Cotton's, Mr. Gibbs', and Martys' one her new crew to last her a lifetime. When he had asked her if she might miss him, she avoided the question. But he wasn't going to let her weasel out of it.

"Come on then, love," he purred, a tone that always worked with the opposite sex. "Say you won't miss ol' Jackie. I won't believe it until _you_ say it."

"What's to miss? Your lying? Selfishness? Always putting yourself before your crew?"

He grinned sheepishly, having anticipated such a response.

"_Pirate."_ He mentioned simply in reminder.

Having heard enough, Anamaria finished her portion of rum and stood from the desk in his stateroom, prepping to say something that was, undoubtedly, very important.

"You've never been any good for me, Jack Sparrow. Or any of us, I might say, but it would be less than genteel of me to speak for others- another lesson you'd do well to learn."

He propped his boots up on the wooden surface, leaning backwards in amusement, ready to watch the intrigue unravel.

"I _won't_ miss having to watch my own back, knowing my Captain won't be there, despite the fact that as his first mate, I had hauled him through every danger. I _won't_ miss wondering when my Captain will get his next foolish idea, and send us all sailing towards a destination of ambiguous purpose. I _won't_ miss splitting what little is left of the loot with the rest of the crew after the Captain has taken far more than his fair share-"

"A fine time for you to air your grievances, Ana. Is this why you are leaving? Because dear old Jack has done you wrong as a Captain?"

His voice was still riddled with a sickening amount of delight at her frustration, for reasons that were, to her, indeterminate. Was it an effort to lighten the situation, him knowing how much contempt she had built up for him over the years? Or was it simply a lack of insight into her feelings? Was it to him, as most things were, a game of little consequence or meaning? She presumed the latter.

"No," she corrected firmly. "I have to go. My time is here has come to an end."

True, her time serving on the _Pearl_ had reached its conclusion, but she also meant the finalization of words for whatever connection she had with Jack. For too long she had known him, too long had she expected more from him, and too long she had been short-changed, not unlike the many whose lives were infiltrated by the pirate. For years she had thought there might have been more to him than anyone else could see, a certain spirit or fire that was enough to invest all personal trust and loyalties in. She had thought that, perhaps, they were more alike than they'd fancy to think, and she didn't mind this idea perhaps being the case. But even if Jack Sparrow had some sort of intangible half that was trustworthy, loyal, and by all rights, more like her, it had yet to show its face for any notable amount of time. For this reason, she had to leave. She had to extract Jack Sparrow from her life like a leech from her vein.

"Very well, then. We both know you had wanted this for some time- a ship to call your own, a crew to command. But know that you will be missed here, sorely."

If only he knew, she remembered thinking as she disembarked the _Pearl _that evening for the very last time. If he had known that a chance for her to see the better side of him might have lead her to postpone her anticipated destiny for a few more years in his service, things might have been drastically different. If she was given even just an inkling that Jack was more than surface level, she would have known that was worth something. She would have stayed, at least a little while longer. Long enough, at least, to properly settle her feelings about him.

But fate had other plans, it seemed, and so his lack of apparent personal depth led her to let the whole tangled mess go- _Pearl,_ Jack, crew and all. There was no use in hanging on to that which is breaking, so better to get her own ship, as she had dreamed, and start anew on the sea. Jack was never going to see anything past his own reflection, or so it seemed. Enough of her time had been wasted figuring this out, after all.

But perhaps, if he had known, things would have been different.

But despite herself, she didn't have the heart to tell him.


	2. Life in Tortuga

A/N: I intended to go a little farther with this chapter, but decided on a good stopping point for the time being. I haven't gotten as many reviews as I'd have hoped, but I have gotten some story alerts/favoriting, which is awesome. Don't be shy now. Let me know what you think.

* * *

"_A fair trial for Will ends in a hanging." _

She knew it as well as he did. He knew, somewhere in the dark canals of his soul, that she had been fully aware all along. She was a bright girl, after all. Bright, ambitious, stubborn, and determined- a carbon copy of her mother. While he couldn't be prouder, he could also curse such attributes to the gates of hell. They were going to get her killed.

"_Then there is nothing left for you here."_

He had no choice but to state the matter frankly. Any pretenses of hope that he might have mustered for her at an earlier age were gone. She was undoubtedly a woman now, and despite his utmost efforts, she had been exposed to the harsh realities of the world and could no longer be comforted by optimistic stories of little pragmatic worth.

Heaven knows he had tried his hardest to shield her, to keep his darling gem safe from heartbreak and trauma. It was not his wish for her to know anything outside of financial security, happiness, and promised love- the expected life of a governor's daughter. But something had gone terribly awry along the timeline of her growth, what and when he failed to pin-point, and now he found himself tearing her from her lover's side, stating the cruel truth to the same sweet, sunny face he had sung lullaby's to as if it was that of a sea-hardened fugitive.

But she wasn't that same child, and was now in closer proximity to that of the fugitive than that of the innocuous little girl. Needs must in dire situations, and he had a duty to own what his daughter had become, as well as withstand her complaints as he forced her back to England.

"_Do not ask me to endure the sight of my daughter walking to the gallows. Do not." _

He saw the grimace of pure hatred and malice on her face as pulled her, forearm first, from the coach. He tried to avert his eyes, obstinate on staying the course. The ship was here, the captain was ready, and she was going, whether it met with her approval or not. Far be it from him to let one look, one glance of hers send the whole plan crumbling.

Amazingly, she did not attempt to fight him. He did not hear her audibly weep as the two maneuvered awkwardly down the length of the dock. No doubt she was crying, but with clenched teeth and a face of resolve, as unavoidable tears streamed down her cheeks. He refused to create to a lifelike mental image of this, continuing to focus on preserving his daughter's safety. Someday she would thank him for this, surely. Someday she would realize that this was his last defense as a father to keep her from evil, even if many aspects had still managed to slip in and taint her upbringing. Someday she would know that he, like any parent, only wanted the best for her more than anything else, and she would find it in her heart to forgive him. Surely, someday.

He could not bring himself to say anything to her as a deckhand took her from his side and led her up the gangplank to the ship. He knew an apology, or worse, an attempted explanation would be brutal. He could not possibly attempt to appeal to reason when he was stripping her of her heart, of the one she truly loved, with every promise of his imminent execution.

"_Take care of her. See to it that she arrives safely at her Uncle's estate." _

He whispered his plead to the Captain furtively and hastily, but with a desperation so thick and noticeable that the other man knew he wouldn't soon forget, or lessen any efforts to insure the young woman's safety.

Elizabeth disappeared into a stateroom long before the crew had begun preparations to shove off, no doubt from a reluctance to face her treacherous father, and so it was with heavy heart that he turned and mounted the driver's seat of the carriage, attempting to mentally prepare himself for the next daunting task; saving his own skin, if at all possible.

Nevertheless, his current state of overwhelming emotional pain was impossible to overcome. Could he ever truly forgive himself for wounding his only daughter? Of course he could. He had to. There _was_ no other option. As much as she failed to see it, there was much love and logic in what he had to do as a father. She would understand that one day, perhaps when she was given children of her own. He had to be confident that his now irreversible choice was the right one, and the thought that she may someday find the capacity to forgive him was assurance enough.

He, however, had only to look up and survey the road before him to know what his imminent fate had in store for him. The mere sight of that familiar leathery face, riddled with so many scars of indeterminate origin that it resembled the surface of a cliff's face, sent his stomach plunging, heart in tow.

"_Evening, Gov'nah,"_ the Yorkshire accent crooned with false pleasantry. _"Where is she?"_

The question was simple enough, and perhaps in a more relaxed setting he would have been able to conjure up a more clever response. Given the circumstances, however, and considering his heart was pounding so hard and so loud in its chest he swore it might break free, he was forced to respond mindlessly,

"_Who?" _

His old, weary body was then forcefully yanked from the driver's seat, and slammed mercilessly into the side of the opposing stagecoach. The glacial bite of a dagger's blade dug into his neck, as if to extract the information by slicing him open.

All this was, of course, inconsequential. From the beginning, it hardly mattered what happened to him. What was important was that Elizabeth was safe, and apparently, he had succeeded in the attempt, if only for the time being. The demon, the crag-faced Mercer had obviously been sent as an agent of Beckett to retrieve and arrest father and daughter, if not worse. Knowing the Captain's -to whom he entrusted his daughter's safety- sailing abilities quite well, he was certain they had no doubt already gotten a generous head start. Beckett wouldn't attempt a wild-goose chase on open waters to an indeterminate location just for a Governor's daughter. No, Elizabeth was clear from harm's path.

They could cuff and flay him, if they wished. His daughter was free, that was enough, and he wasn't talking.

* * *

There had been a few dark days following the storm.

This seemed to apply not only to her, but to most any surviving, over-ambitious Captain or unfortunate crewman of said archetype that had attempted to best it, as if it was a beast to be tamed.

She cursed herself for not knowing better, for not realizing that the better leader would have overcome his own ego to keep his crewman and his ship safe. She had mistaken cowardice for sense, an accident she was not likely to rapidly forget, as the toll was her new ship and a majority of her crew.

Sea winds, the force that dictated the direction of any sailor's life, had seen fit to bring her back to Tortuga, washing her up on the shore of the port like a poisoned fish, after two days of gripping driftwood. She had no choice but to muster up endurance and embrace her immediate fate, detestable as it was.

Nevertheless, a brief period of solemnity and depression ensued before she found herself able to overcome it. She would use what remained of her financial resources to buy alcohol, and she would sit on the beach, cussing and drinking to the point of inebriation. She would then pass out, only to awaken the next day to begin the cycle over again, despite morning-after headaches and nausea that seemed to worsen by the day. The practice succeeded in killing her emotional aching, masking it with that of real, physical pain. When she was drunk, she had a hard time remembering that she was ever a Captain of her own ship, much less one that failed miserably in maintaining it.

The cycle was abruptly ceased when she ran out of money, and such an occurrence was enough to snap her back to reality. She hadn't fully realized before that moment that she couldn't sit here forever, drinking away the disappointment until she either died or drowned in it. Something inside her always knew this of course, it had only just found the opportune moment to let the rest of her conscious, which had up until that moment been unwilling, accept it.

Exiting the growing society on Tortuga of Captains who were unsuccessful in taming said hurricane and now maintained a drunken haze to blind them from the truth, Anamaria secured a respectable job and returned to her stern belief of everything in moderation, especially rum. For this reason, it was especially ironic that she had chosen to work for the Inn, the source of a majority of Tortuga's alcohol and a perpetual resting spot for sots. It also served as housing for the local prostitution business, which helped to accumulate customers on the nights ships made port.

Though Anamaria had only previously known Tortuga as a constantly rambunctious, noisy, alcohol-soused pirate sex fest, she had never stopped to think that this was only the case when ships stopped in and unloaded their crew for the night. There was an entire side of the town that she had never been given the opportunity to see, and she found, to her amazement, that it was quite beautiful. When her duties at the Inn had finished for the night, which included dishwashing, potato peeling and light housekeeping of the upstairs bedrooms, or when she was given time off, she would take time to stroll the length of the beach. Occasionally, when the area was especially solitary, she would strip off her clothes and swim, an activity that she hadn't done in years despite her copious time spent on the sea.

Because her job required her to work in close quarters with the prostitutes, cleaning their rooms and such, she happened to form close friendships with them and would join them in their usual daily pastimes, such as knitting, chatting, and card games, most often of the gambling sort. Things were especially slow at the bar of the Inn during these lazy afternoons and evenings, and so the bartender, a large, Scottish gentleman, would regale her with stories of his life on the sea before settling into a job on land. Even the drunkards, who were noticeably less intoxicated on these days, would wearily explain to her why they were here, what had caused their downfall, and she would listen intently, hoping that a lent ear would do wonders for their heartbreak.

It was an interesting thing, living in Tortuga when the business was absent. She likened it to the before and after of a theatre performance, when the actors are resting or prepping for the next act. They all would remain relaxed and stationary, the prostitutes, the bar wenches like herself, the musicians, the alcoholics, all in different stages of preparedness for the next scene. Yet as much as they teetered on the brink of normalcy and theatrics, they all remained fully unperturbed, entirely confident in their abilities to entertain, and perhaps jaded from the many, many ships that came into port each month.

This didn't, however, take any excitement away from the arrival of new ships. Despite everyone's full tranquility during the down time, there was a slight, ever-present buzz of electric excitement in the air of every evening, as this was when most ships came in. A ship, or more, could arrive at any moment without warning, and thus was the cause of the nearly unnoticeable tension. When a ship did, in fact, sail in, the look-out on duty in the high clock tower would run through the streets with a bell, announcing its presence.

"_Ship, ho! Ship, ho!" _

All it took was the simple clang of a bell and two words to set everything on fire. The courtesans would immediately throw their feet off whatever they had propped them up on, toss their playing cards, needles, or small pets carelessly on the table, and run off to the backrooms to quickly dress and prep, elbowing and scratching one another the whole way. The Scottish bartender, though sweet and patient when things were slow, would immediately begin shouting commands to his workers and feverishly restocking the liquor supply. She was expected to put the finishing touches on any of the upstairs bedrooms, lace up prostitute girdles, and quickly return to the downstairs bar to help serve the flood of illegitimate sailors that would soon pour in through the doors.

The rush didn't fully cease until the early hours of the morning, when most of the customers had finally passed out from their generous intake of rum. With her feet and knees hurting, she and the rest of the Inn staff, musicians included, would haul out each pirate by their wrists or ankles, leaving them to wake up in the street so that they could have space to clean up the scattered piles of vomit, blood, and sometimes, severed appendages. The job was, at times, much more difficult than being a part of a pirate crew. It was equally as strange for her to be back in a lower position of authority, having gotten used to working as first-mate and finally, Captain. But there was something about it that was reminiscent of being on a ship, and for that reason, she couldn't help but love it.

Though she maintained, at the back of her mind, that this position was only temporary, only a means to get her back on her feet financially, she found herself adjusting to the security of its routine. She became accustom to rising early in the morning to housekeep, to then joining the rest of the staff for a complimentary breakfast provided by her Scottish boss, to keeping busy all day and then either corralling herds of drunken privateers in the evenings, or going for a swim before bedtime. The predictability, a thing she formerly abhorred, became comforting. And she nearly forgot all about her life before, _The Rising Sun_, being Captain, or Jack Sparrow. So the night she found herself in his presence once more was similar in experience to seeing a ghost, and just as horrifying.


	3. One Chapter Behind

A/N: Despite the lack of attention this story seems to be getting, I've decided to keep going. It doesn't really matter to me as I'm really writing this as much for myself as I am for others who might enjoy it. It was just an idealistic scenario I thought of and I thought it would be cool to breathe some life in to it through my only available medium- writing. So, I'll keep it going and see if traffic doesn't increase a little. I'm thoroughly grateful to those who have left a few remarks and decided to give this story a try.

Oh and also, there was little bit of understandable confusion over this earlier, so I just thought I'd clarify for those who are being mislead (it might discourage you further from reading on which is the absolute last thing this story needs, lol. But I strive for honesty). This will, perhaps unfortunately, not be a Jack/Anamaria story. I realize that the story has given that impression and I failed to specify otherwise. So if you're a hardcore Sparramaria fan and couldn't possibly bare to see her with anyone else, then this is perhaps not the story for you and I apologize for giving the wrong impression. Believe me, I know how frustrating that can be.

I actually used to be a big Jack/Ana supporter back in the day, before the last two installments. I've just come to feel that Jack has it pretty solid with the lady-folk and definitely isn't searching for a real relationship. I feel that Anamaria would only tolerate this for so long before she moved on to better things. She's one smart cookie after all, and definitely not the type to be dictated by a _man._ Anyway, there are other eligible bachelors in the _Pirates _story that have not been so lucky with the opposite sex, or with most things in life, for that matter. They, to me, deserve a second a chance at redemption, and perhaps a second chance at falling in love (hint hint). I don't want to give too much away. But the course of relationships will become apparent in the matter of the next few chapters, so hang tight, gang.

Anyway, thanks for reading! Please, don't forget to leave a little comment behind if you make it to the end. I'd love to hear what you think! =)

* * *

"_My story…is exactly like your story, just one chapter behind." _

That voice, that tenor. Where had heard it before? It sang to some distant memory, or perhaps one a bit more recent. He could hardly tell anymore. His sense of past and present had long ago fused to a nearly unintelligible mass. Still, when the moment was right, he could distinguish select tidbits, and there was an unmistakably frightening familiarity about this man's voice, as if it should worry him to hear it. But for what reason?

"_I chased a man across the seven seas. The pursuit cost me my crew, my commission, and my life." _

Oh, right.

There was no time to think, no time to even exclaim at the curious new condition of his old foe. His disposition made it apparent that he had gone mad with desperation and loss, an unfortunate combination with a man as resolute as James Norrington. No doubt his unrestrained intake of alcohol would destroy what little clemency he might have ever retained, not to mention the fact that he was currently unattached from the societal values that would forbid him from seeking revenge through cold-blood murder. Perhaps if he obscured his face with this nearest palm frond and snuck out quietly? Perhaps no one would notice…

* * *

"_I nearly had you all of Tripoli. I would have. If not for that hurricane…"_

She had seen him here countless times before. She had seen him leaning haphazardly on the dock at different intervals of the day, passed out under lampposts, or once and a while, he'd be one of the gentlemen they'd drag out at 3 am. He had been no different from the thousands of other alcoholics, save for the fact that he seemed to have once dressed in finer clothing. Of course, they were now irreparably soiled, and his powdered wig beneath his tri-corn hat, no doubt once a beloved symbol of his status, was matted and torn.

She had seen him, but she had never noticed him until the moment he shouted, alerting the rest of the Inn that something was terribly wrong. They had, perhaps surprisingly, never had an issue with an angry drunk the entire time she had resided here. She supposed she should have expected it, yet when the voice arose over all others, demanding, harsh, and scathingly bitter, even she felt anxious shivers coarse down her spinal column.

"_You haven't said where you're going. Some place…nice?" _

The sudden clattering of the upturned table shattered any pleasance that remained, and the attention of the entire Inn was on the raucous, uncouth, and exceedingly displeased individual to uneasily see what he would do next.

"_So am I worthy to serve under Captain Jack Sparrow?" _

The words seemed to audibly taunt her. It was impossible, wasn't it? Jack Sparrow couldn't have sauntered back into her life that quickly. Yet, her ears betrayed her. He was here, they insisted, right in this very building.

"_Or should I just kill you now?" _

She couldn't help but notice the Scottish bartender searching vehemently beneath the counter for his pistol, cursing under his breath at each upturned stone that revealed nothing, throwing objects heedlessly on the floor behind him. The tall, livid rogue in the middle of the floor had pulled out one of his own, aiming it squarely at a figure attempting to hide behind a palm frond. She didn't need to look twice to know who it was.

"_Sorry," he replied to whatever it was the palm frond said. "Old habits and all that."_

The resounding click of the pistol robbed breath from every individual in the area, and an aura of immovable tension blanketed the crowd. They had become helpless with an invincible fear, unable to overcome their surprise at the rapid turn of events long enough to disarm the dangerous villain.

Yet, where there should have been the blast of gun barrel was the click of another pistol and the growl of a Dominican woman's voice.

"Drop it."

* * *

He parted the waxy leaves of the frond from his face to see the owner of this also strikingly familiar female voice, who had apparently been his savior. Regrettably, the former Commodore's six-foot-two frame blocked any sight of her, yet he could tell from the disheartened look on the enemy's stubbled face that any efforts to kill him had been successfully thwarted.

"_Drop it, _I said."

The woman's insistence, and applied pressure of the barrel into the back of Norrington's neck, caused him to drop the weapon like searing hot coal, and thusly raise his arms up beside him in a display of submission.

"Turn around."

Norrington did as he was told, yet didn't forfeit his expression of irritation at the woman's interference. As he turned, the identity of Jack's rescuer was revealed, and he was not in the least bit shocked to see his former first-mate standing there, holding a much larger, physically-superior man at gun point.

"We don't fight like that here, sailor," she explained firmly. "If you're going kill a man, you have come by it honestly."

The ex-Commodore scoffed, for what Jack assumed was an attempt to maintain his dignity and intimidating control over the crowd.

"Honesty? Strange words coming from the wench of a _pirate _bar."

Her eyes narrowed, and she roughly nudged her adversary in the chest with the barrel of the pistol, causing him to stumble backwards slightly.

"Strange words to be sayin' to the woman holding the pistol to yer' chest, wouldn't yeh' say?"

The man who had signed for Jack's crew in an effort to live his childhood dream of sailing the seas forever, ran to Anamaria's side, clutching the hilt of his rapier.

"She's right! If yeh're going to kill 'im, yeh've got to do fairly!"

The Inn's crowd seemed to all audibly agree with this statement, nodding their heads and booing at James Norrington for going against their unwritten code of honorable homicide. Norrington seemed amused by the perceived juxtaposition of pirates demanding legitimacy, and chuckling as he remained at Anamaria's gunpoint, he queried,

"Very well then, I'll participate with the delusion so long as the _wench_ holds my life at arm's length. What is it I can do to _fairly_ kill this waste of humanity hiding behind a stick?"

Jack couldn't help but interrupt to remind him and any others listening,

"It's a palm frond!"

Ignoring him, Anamaria grasped the shimmering, gold hilt of Norrington's rapier and yanked it with a startling swish from its' sheath. In a second flat, she maneuvered the blade to lie across his collar bone, cutting in sharply to the side of his neck. Approaching him so that her nose was mere inches away from his chin, as this was the ratio of their heights, she pressed the barrel in between his ribcage, the biting chill of the metal seeping through the cloth of his shirt to the vulnerable skin beneath.

"A fine sword," she commented casually, glancing at the blade and then back at him. She appreciated his attempt to hide his obvious intimidation with a forced expression of apathy and an inability to meet her eye line.

"I take it you're a decent fencer?"

The crowd then shifted their attention back to Norrington, curious to see his response to the proposal hidden within the question. As if in a final attempt to regain his audience's awe, he forcefully grasped her wrist of the hand that held the rapier, jerking her in closer to him so that she could better smell his lack of proper hygiene and see his jaws clenched tighter than a spring. Her sudden intake of breath was impossible to stifle, but her face remained stone still, unaffected by his brutish actions. Did he think she had never been manhandled before?

"I'll show you decent, madam."

After withdrawing the blade from her clutches, he spun around to face his nemesis in a full preparatory stance, only to find that the palm frond and the man behind it were nowhere to be seen. Gone too, was Mr. Gibbs, who had been quivering behind the upturned table the entire time. Anamaria wasn't nearly as taken aback as Norrington, who cursed loudly and demanded the whereabouts of the coward. It wasn't entirely her intention to be a diversion, or even a savior, for that matter. However, she recognized that she should have known better to begin with. This _was_ Jack Sparrow, after all.

Norrington's sword did not become superfluous, however, as it was immediately matched by the newest members of Jack's crew and anyone else in the surrounding area that wanted to fight. The band, as if on cue, started up the tune to a merry jig and things went, more or less, back to normal, save for some of her fellow barmaids that were now inexplicably wrestling each other on the floor, girdles popping.

Her role in this strange, unlikely charade seemed to have come to an end, and Jack Sparrow had once more ducked out of her life as quickly as he had come. She would have liked to then let the matter go, to return to her duties behind the bar and forget the whole ordeal had never occurred. She would have loved to regain her loss of conscious knowledge of Jack Sparrow and the _Pearl_ that she had earned from months of being away from it all. How wonderfully blissful it would be to mentally return back five minutes ago, before the spirits of her past made a cameo, if only to menacingly remind her that they existed.

But as she observed the former naval officer in his drunken, slovenly, undeniably pathetic, yet admirably dogged attempt to fight back the overwhelming number of pirates that had now pushed him back against a wooden post in the center of the room, Anamaria realized that she was not yet free of her former identity, and could quite possibly be settled with it forever.

Without thinking the matter through entirely, she grabbed a long forgotten bottle from a nearby table and purposefully weaved her way through the lumbering bodies and the dangerously active pieces of metal all waving at the same target. She came up behind the former commodore stealthily, though she was quite sure that he was occupied enough to not take the slightest notice of her presence.

"_Come on, who wants some?" he roared ferociously, much like a severely wounded lion, doomed to die by the outnumbering hyenas, but determined not to lose his pride in forfeit. "Form an orderly line, I'll have you all one by one!" _

That was enough. Claim by claim, threat by threat, the man's pride was slipping through his fingers like sand, and he was either too dense or too blind by his own self-perception to heed it. Unsure whether she was rescuing him from death or total embarrassment by doing so, and acting quickly so she wouldn't have to think too hard about it, Anamaria raised the rum bottle high into the air and let it down forcefully on the back of his wigged head with a satisfying smash, sending the towering beast plummeting to the wooden floor.

When the sudden shatter of glass returned the crowd to the previous state of speechlessness and frozen immovability, Anamaria replied simply, at a loss of any other words,

"_I just wanted the pleasure of doing that myself!" _


	4. Time Will Tell

A/N: Those of you who have been following the story will notice a difference in my "marketing" ploy. While nothing that has already been written has changed, the direction of the plot quite possibly has, or at least the focus. I thought I might be able to increase traffic to the story if I made the plot revolve around both Anamaria and Norrington, which is probably what I was going to end up doing in the first place. This way, things are sure to focus more on the personal issues they both share as a result of losing their beloved stations in life and how the two cope with them differently. Also, it will immediately attract Norrington fans, or so I hope. Its' an experiment, so it'll be interesting to see how things work out.

Also, I admit that I feel like this chapter was lacking slightly, but I was eager to finish it and get the new style of things underway. I apologize if it seems sub-par in any way. I'll try to do better with the others.

Disclaimer- I've been neglecting this. Though, I think if I've interjected the word "disclaimer" at the beginning of my story, its pretty self-explanatory, right? I don't really need to hammer away every chapter about how I don't own the franchise for which I'm writing. You guys know better than that.

* * *

When had it come to this?

What could he have done to deserve being tossed in a bed of hog filth, like so many useless scraps of kitchen fodder? When had his sword, a prized symbol of his naval honor, been replaced by a bottomless bottle of rum?

When had the fates decreed that James Norrington deserved to be a perpetually unhappy man?

He couldn't bring himself to rise from the encumbering mire after having landed with a most ungraceful _plop,_ and instead chose to embrace his fate. Perhaps if he was fortunate, for once in many years, the submergence of his face would be enough to drown him.

The resounding ring of mocking laughter began to fade as the pirates retreated back into the bar, and even still seemed to sound his death knell. For what purpose did he still maintain to live? Who remained that would care or even notice if the world was short one failed, ruined, and broken man?

He couldn't even grant himself the pleasure of an efficient death. Not only because his pistol still remained on the floor of the inn, but also because he didn't see himself worth the effort. May he exit the world fully immersed in the literal result of his foolishness and lament every moment until mud filled his lungs.

* * *

The cold, viscous sludge of the sty seeped through the porous fibers of her cotton dress as she gradually assumed a kneel beside the placid lump of a man. She found her movements involuntarily slow and deliberate, like a mother approaching a sleeping child to wake them, as she gingerly extended hands to his shoulders.

Gently, she lifted the upper portion of his body from the remarkably strong suction of the thick slime, causing him to elicit sudden, jarring coughs as he expelled the filth from his air passages, his entire body heaving dangerously.

She hadn't fully accepted the fact that she was once again denying an opportunity to neglect her past. She hadn't thought too meticulously about the probable outcomes of helping the man she had subdued with a broken rum bottle as she left her post to assist him. Perhaps the pull of sympathy had been too great, and what remained of the strong, resolute wall around her heart had collapsed with the cushioning happiness of her life in Tortuga. Regardless of the cause, she felt a steadfast need to not leave the former naval officer wallowing in the shallows to become hog-feed.

His convulsing then halted momentarily, as he turned his head slightly to view who was responsible for arresting his inevitable decay. The abrupt halt in movement brought her attention back to the figure before her, as her thoughts had led her eyes momentarily astray.

She wasn't sure if the moment caught them both by surprise, but it certainly did her. Beneath the layers of coagulated muck and fresh grime that dripped from the strands of his thoroughly destroyed wig, were two cerulean orbs of a most unfathomable honesty. They gazed back at her in destitution and bereavement, long overdue for the amount of human generosity she was offering him. The haughty, combative individual that she met moments ago at the barrel of gun was mysteriously absent, replaced by a man of seemingly unmatched sincerity and selflessness who had been dealt a rather unfortunate hand. She wondered if this could be the man that once was, the fine Commodore whose commission had been compromised by a common need to displace Jack Sparrow and dominated by the less desirable personality defects of alcohol.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he demanded to know, his voice thick with a less-than convincing attempt to sound indignant, but betrayed by an evident need for philanthropy.

She could only sigh, resuming her efforts to turn him over and pull him to his feet.

"You foolish man," was all she could muster to say.

* * *

He hadn't expected compassion, but especially not _hers._ Why the woman that would assist in humiliating him in front of her fellow miscreants and knock him unconscious with a bottle, proceed to pull him from the mud into which he had been thrown was beyond his comprehension. Nevertheless, he found himself taking refuge in her act of charity.

After clearing his lungs, he turned his head to face her, to see if within her expression there might be evident reason for her actions. The spasmodic shift of her eyes from a distant location to his own caught him a bit off guard, particularly the evident amount of depth they seemed to obtain that he had somehow missed in the light of the inn.

There was a pleasantly serene aura to her facial structure that seemed to instantly calm him, yet it was accompanied by an undeniably stern resolve that was no doubt chiseled by years of exposure to the world's harsh realities.

At a loss of anything else to say, he queried briskly,

"What are _you _doing here?"

He was almost certain she could detect the desperation in his voice, despite his efforts to come off as callous.

She sighed exasperatedly as she replied,

"You foolish man"

And he secretly concurred. It required only the truest and most barbaric of idiots to be coarse with the one, select soul that chose to show kindness out of a multitude of those who couldn't care less. He knew this quite well, but was bound too tightly by pride to apologize.

She then extended his arm over her shoulders, and rose from the muck, hauling him to his feet with her. She held the hand of his arm tightly in hers, so to bind his ungainly form to her side securely. Even with her support, he found the effort of standing straight particularly challenging, and had to resort to the unflinching foundation of the stable door to prevent his other side from slipping downwards.

"You don't have to do this," he mentioned softly as he gripped the splintering wood post, deliberately softening his tone.

She grunted faintly in the back of her throat as she adjusted his dead weight, shifting his arm so that he pulled closer to her and consequently offering him more support. After doing so, she glanced over at him with a smirk.

"Yeh'd be horrible feed for the pigs, mate."

* * *

The pair had lumbered down the cobbled streets of Tortuga for a lengthy amount of time devoid of any words or audible sound save for the labored breathing of their efforts- she, from being his only steady footing and he from attempting to overcome the gelatinous feeling in his legs and the swimming of his mind in gallons of downed alcohol. They had agreed beforehand that she would take him to the _Pearl_, and she had agreed with herself that she would depart before she could even get a whiff -the familiar stench of musk and alcohol- of Jack.

"What's your name, miss?"

The arbitrary timing of the man's question caught her a bit off guard, and hung between them pendulously for a few tense moments while she hesitated to answer it. It wasn't that she didn't desire to give him her name, it was simply that she couldn't see the logical point of doing so at this juncture and had rather come of the opinion that it was the last thing he cared to know about her.

"I'm James Norrington," he stated, attempting to lift the awkward blanket of silence.

"Former Commodore of the British Royal Navy, current drunk in an effort to forget my prior station."

He then unexpectedly lurched forwards, requiring her to grab a handful of the fabric of his coat and yank him upwards. It was then that she relented, replying with a conceding exhale,

"Anamaria, former Captain, current sot-support."

He leaned backwards over her shoulder as he downed another gulp of rum, the source from where he might have acquired it a complete mystery to her. She released his hand to swiftly grab the neck of the bottle and proceeded to wrench it from his clutches.

"That'senough of _that_, Mr. Norrington," she scolded as she poured the remaining contents onto the street beside her and tossed the empty container behind her shoulder with diminishing shatter.

He waved off the title with an ungainly swipe of the hand, pitching forward in front of her as his arm made its trek back down.

"Oh please, none of this _Mr. Norrington_ business. I'm no more worth a _Mr._ than a criminal's worth a-"

The sentence was cut short as he broke from her arm and ran to the side of a stone bridge that stood just before them in their path. He staggered and tripped feverishly the entire way, keeping one hand planted firmly over his mouth. She felt awful for finding his attempt to walk on his own amusing, yet she excused it by reminding herself that he deserved it for not finding a healthier medium through which to vent his pain.

His stomach collided with the stone siding of the bridge, and the upper half of his body reeled dangerously forward over the ledge as he heaved. As his efforts to relieve his stomach became more belligerent, he slipped farther over the edge, and she was forced to run to his aid, lest he fall face first in the water below and leave her to fish him out in her bar maid's frock.

Once more, she used a hold on his shoulders to hoist him upwards. Her ability to handle an individual of his size continued to her amaze her, particularly so as his hostile, jarring movements were making the effort no simpler.

Finally, the fervent vomiting stopped, and she assisted in turning him on his back to lean against the stone siding for a moment before they continued their journey. Breathing heavily, he managed to sputter out,

"Perhaps I'll call you Miss Ana. That sounds rather respectable, don't you think?"

She wrinkled her nose in distaste as she hauled herself up to sit beside him on the siding.

"No. _That_ sounds like a child," she attested. "…or a school teacher."

"Well I can't very well call you Anamaria all the time, now can I?"

She shrugged her shoulders and examined her cuticles, wondering where the issue lay with him the structure of her name.

"And why not? Everyone else does."

He turned over calculatedly, attempting to overcome his likelihood to tumble as he transferred his weight to the support of his elbows and chest.

"Well, it's too long, isn't it?" he argued, glancing at her skeptically. "Far too many syllables."

"Then you may think of something else to call me," she replied, matter-of-factly. "Something less patronizing would be preferable."

The pair was silent for a brief interlude as James mulled thoroughly over all possibilities. She spied him out of the corner of her eye as he rubbed his unshaven chin, creating quite audible scratching sounds as his finger tips grazed over his stubble.

"What do you think of _Ana_? Simple, basic, to the point…"

She rather liked the long emphasis he put on the first 'a', a pronunciation she hadn't heard many use before. Instead of just jumping over the letter with a quick, sheep-like sound as most people did, James Norrington chose to draw it out with an 'aaahhh', as if he was sinking into warm bathwater or sipping an especially superb bisque. Even so, she couldn't resign that quickly.

"Or," she began, slyly. "You could call me _Anamaria_?"

He scoffed, and proceeded to spit out an extra bit of mid-digested refuse that remained in his esophagus into the body of water below.

"How very clever," he mused sarcastically.

She then leapt down from her seated position on the bridge siding and approached him, proceeding to slip her head underneath the crook of his right arm, much like a dog trying to get its master's attention. This rather abrupt, forward gesture first took him by surprise, until he realized through her motions of placing a hand on his back, draping his arm over her shoulder, and lifting his weight upwards like a shoulder yoke, that she was resuming her occupation as his support.

"The point is rather moot, anyway," she mentioned as soon as they had achieved a stable footing. "You won't be seeing me again after tonight."

"And how is that?" he challenged, his previous sarcasm having no less strength. "Are you not doing this to abandon your job as bar maid and resume your life on the sea?"

Though the tone of his voice was clear in its lack of sincerity, she found the question no less thought provoking. She had promised herself time and time again that her link with Jack and the Pearl had been officially severed, and that her return to the open oceans would be through her own efforts. Yet, she wondered if it was at all possible that her unavoidable destiny had other plans. She did not want to believe that her uncharacteristic sympathy for James Norrington was a device to lure her back to what she had been trying to avoid, but the possibility was undeniably there.

"No," she stated with finality. "I'm only dropping you off, just as we agreed."

He chuckled softly, responding in his unconvinced, bemused tone that had begun to annoy her royally,

"Time will tell, Miss Ana. Time will tell. "


	5. We Have Our Heading

A/N: I thank you for your patience. This chapter was particularly difficult to write, and by that I mean the second half. I got kind of bored with it halfway in, knowing that it was vital for the story, but hating the feeling of rehashing an old scene(I guess that's really what most of this is, I just didn't feel enough of a deviance from the original). Anyway, I'm glad to have gotten this out of the way and promise(hopefully) "juicier" additions that are better to read and more fun to write. I've just got to figure out how I can reasonably change the old plot to still have everything make sense, the ends to meet, etc, etc. Anyway, please don't forget to leave your input of the story so far. Like it, love it, hate it, lemme know.

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Even as the audible smacks of knuckles to flesh rang out through his office, his expression remained unflinchingly listless and thoroughly indifferent. The entirety of his attention seemed devoted to the papers on his desk, the map on the wall, his feather quills, and any other practical duties his office possessed. Had one not known better, they might have come to the conclusion that he was deaf and had no other indication of what was happening to the man strapped in the chair before him.

"Thank you, Mercer. That will suffice." He said calmly, not bothering to look up from a batch of paperwork he had occupied himself with.

Mercer dropped his fists immediately and assumed a rigid, emotionless stance beside his victim as though nothing had occurred.

Beckett dabbed his quill once more in the inkwell, and proceeded to finish a document that was before him. The scribbling of the pen tip to the piece of parchment filled the dank, soundless room with the echoing grate of metal to an abrasive surface, making the momentary space of noiseless time all the more taxing.

"Governor Swann," he mentioned over his work as casually as addressing a business associate. "I do hope that I've made my point clear."

The Governor gradually rolled his head upwards from where he had let it fall between his shoulders in exhaustion. The metallic tang of blood rested effusively on his tongue, dripping out steadily from the corners of his mouth and seeping between the cracks of his parched lips. He could feel more of the hot liquid making its way down the side of his face, coagulating in the crevices of his ear.

"Transparently, sir."

Beckett inhaled audibly as he set the quill back in the inkwell and proceeded to gather up his parchments in organized stacks.

"Then may I assume you are prepared to talk with me?"

The Governor rolled his jaw, staring fixedly at the curled patterns of the Persian rug beneath his feet.

"No." he answered quietly and briskly, refusing to lock eyes with the man before him.

Cutler Beckett sighed audibly, pushing his chair out slightly from behind his desk. He sucked his front teeth as he rose and made his way to the front of the furniture piece, where upon he leaned against the edge and crossed his arms over his chest. He surveyed Governor Swann with his perpetual air of mocking delight, one corner of his mouth turned upwards in a sneer.

"It seems my methods of persuasion have been ineffective against you, Governor, despite their overwhelming rate of success in the past. There are so few who won't loosen their lips after meeting Mercer's fist. I applaud your versatility."

He then clutched his hands behind his back, approaching the Governor's chair to commence a leisurely, vulture-like circling in an attempt to intimidate.

"But this does not, unfortunately, assist you in the slightest. In fact, it would be not only in your best interest, but _Miss Swann's_ as well, to admit her whereabouts."

Governor Swann couldn't manage to stifle a soft chuckle, partially out of amusement of Cutler Beckett's ignorance of Elizabeth's destination, and equally from an immense sense of relief. Despite the tremendous, resonating pain in his head, he was capable of a momentary joy, a fleeting elation that gave him cause to forget the throbbing of his skull.

"Save your effort and kill me now," The Governor advised coarsely, smiling with a solemn contentment. "I won't tell you anything."

Cutler Beckett once more crossed his arms over his chest, reeling back slightly from the subdued man with a bemused curiosity, as though he were evaluating a painting at museum.

"And yet you find this humorous? Now why might that be?" he queried sarcastically, stroking his pale chin. "Might you think that I don't know where your daughter is? Is it possible that you think you have some miniscule power over me in this way?"

Beckett chortled to himself, a sound that caused a solution of nausea and dread to bubble in the pit of Governor Swann's stomach and instantly obliterate whatever sense of optimism he previously harbored.

"Governor, allow me to make it _painstakingly_ clear that I know full well where your daughter is headed and have no personal qualms with diverting the route of a few of my ships. They happen to already be on the hunt for a few other offenders of the crown - Jack Sparrow's crew, to be specific, and they already have explicit orders to _dispense justice_ at will."

The older man then discovered the ability to meet with Cutler Beckett's eyes, which he found to be a frigid, opaque shade of silver. Reminiscent of small, gray stones, they were just as impenetrable and equally as unyielding. They, like the rest of his personage, seemed to constantly shine with a derisive merriment. It could have been considered the essence of sadism, yet Cutler Beckett never took an outward pleasure in his victims' pain. Evidence of this was how he seemed to have the need to keep himself occupied while Mercer pounded the Governor's face into mincemeat. He could have been written off as merely spoiled, accustom to always having gotten his way and never taught the concept of others before one's self. But the Governor knew better. A child praised excessively with gifts and not enough with real, human affection might do detestable things as an adult for attention, but never with the amount of disinterest and cunning craftsmanship as Beckett. There was something indisputably evil about the diminutively-sized young man. He was an individual devoid and incapable of emotion, including that of an ability to take gratification in the enemy's affliction, physical or otherwise. This made him all the more horrifying.

"_Dispense Justice?_" The Governor relayed back incredulously. "By cutlass and cannonade, no doubt."

Beckett's perverse, subtle smirk then grew to a full grin, encompassing the entirety of his mouth.

"Very good, Governor. You're learning quickly."

Governor Swann unlocked their eyes as he jerked his head away, grinding his jaws meticulously while he searched the room for another object of feigned fixation.

"_What do you want from me?_" he demanded finally, a full sense of weary resignation dominating his tone.

Beckett, who had at his point arrived at the table that harbored his gin set, poured himself a drink and fully downed it with a grimace of the up-burn before answering the Governor's query.

"_You authority as governor, your influence in London, and your loyalty…to the East India Trading Company." _He responded, fully engrossed with the effort of pouring himself another glass. Upon finishing the task, he raised the tumbler of amber liquid only to interrupt the imminent consumption with a chortle.

"Oh, right, nearly forgot…" he added, sliding a parchment beside him on the table into his unoccupied hand. He then unraveled the document, shaking it a few times with the limited use of one hand so as to get make it straight and legible.

"I, Governor Weatherbee Swann," he began, beginning to progressively float around the room as though he were at a cocktail party. "Do hereby state my full, consensual assistance in the deflection of fugitives of justice and do thereby announce my status as a guilty party. I now formally resign my fate to the wisdom of the Court of England."

The Governor eyed Beckett quizzically as he queried,

"_Fugitives?_ I assisted none but my daughter."

Beckett's grin broadened cruelly.

"Did you? As far as I know you were fully aware of Mr. Turner's escape and made absolutely no attempt to stop him."

The Governor's jaw dropped, his eyes widening in a sickening mixture of dread and disbelief.

"William _left_ on your behalf!" he argued, voice rising in steadily in volume. "You had an agreement!"

The shorter man downed the second tumbler, once more recoiling subtly.

"And regrettably, Mr. Turner made no point of acquiring physical evidence of this exchange, _namely,_ a document in ink."

He placed the glass down on the mahogany surface of his desk with a resounding _clunk,_ before turning back to face his adversary.

The Governor found the ability to not writhe and thrash in his chair very difficult to maintain. He knew it would do him no good in the end, and would only increase Beckett's infuriating merriment at the futility of his efforts. Yet, the overwhelming need to do _something_ had begun to overtake him, and so he tugged at the secure bonds on his wrist and forearms, hoping the tight seal might loosen.

"Governor Swann," Beckett uttered, bringing his face downward so that it was inches from his. "What happens to your daughter is of little consequence to me. Dead or alive, its' a mere six to a half dozen of another. The choice is, ultimately, _yours._"

He brought the piece of parchment out from behind his back, extending it invitingly towards Governor Swann.

"_Sign_, and I will have seen nothing."

The Governor's line of sight bounced from Beckett to the parchment and back again, suspiciously.

"Am I to believe that I am signing a confession to _earn_ my own freedom as well as Elizabeth's? I have no reason to trust this, or you."

Beckett cocked his head to the side, eyeing the man expectantly, yet never losing the impression of ridicule.

"And yet on the other hand, you _chance_ Elizabeth's freedom and your own by signing, or you doom both with certainty by defying. As I've said, the decision lies with you."

Governor Swann knew full-well that Cutler Beckett would postpone his death and even his conviction until he had achieved the influence he needed in England. If the Governor was convicted of heresy, he would lose his position as a reliable advocate to the King. If he was dead, he would be of absolutely no use at all to Beckett, and so both of these threats became idle. However, there were no barriers between Beckett and Elizabeth's murder, and though there was absolutely no guarantee that signing the document would lead to her freedom, as Beckett had proven himself to be less than a man of his word, there was a promise that refusing to do so would seal her fate. The solution became clear, and Governor Swann knew what he had to do. He expected that once his usefulness came to an end, Beckett would either present the well-preserved confession or skip a step entirely and execute his assassination, but he had known from the moment he released his daughter from the cell that his death was imminent. The inevitable chronology of forthcoming events had begun to present itself. It was only a matter of time before they occurred.

"_Do what you can for my daughter." _

Beckett nodded to Mercer, whose presence in the corner of the room had nearly been forgotten altogether by the Governor. The sharp _snick_ of Mercer's pocket knife reverberated off the walls of the cavernous office as he approached the back of Governor Swann's chair.

"_Shall I remove these ropes?"_

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"Have to admit I didn't expect seein' Anamaria," Gibbs mentioned, passing a crate onto Pintel to be brought on board. "Especially in her _newest_ line of work."

Jack made no effort to assist in the transfer of supplies, as was typical of him before embarking. Instead, he stood in his characteristic swagger beside the pile of cargo, occupying himself with the compass that still refused to point in any definite direction.

"I'm not certain we'll be leaving tonight after all, Mr. Gibbs," he confessed, ignoring the other man's prior statement. "I have yet to achieve a dependable reading…"

Mr. Gibbs released himself from the work as more of the crew members began to pour into the docking bay and take over the effort. He strode over beside the Captain, helping himself to a swig from the flask in his vest pocket.

"I doubt the crew will be pleased to hear that," he replied in a hushed tone, concerned someone might hear. "We'd probably be best shovin' off anyway. Perhaps the sea winds will clear your head enough to make that confounded tool useful."

Jack shut the compass with a loud clap, attempting to mask his frustration. He had so far been successful, as he typically was with hiding his true feelings on a subject. It wasn't just the mark of a good Captain to be largely indifferent, but a personal philosophy of his as well. It did not suit to take matters as seriously as most individuals did when operating as a pirate, and was, in his opinion, mostly a waste of time and effort. He saw no practical use in fussing over anything, particularly something as uncontrollable as one's emotions and those of the people around him. He couldn't let himself lose sight of what was important, which was to remember that _nothing_ is important.

However, he was fairly disquieted by Jones' method of extracting compensation for their thirteen year old agreement, a sentiment that he recognized had not been concealed as tactfully as the others from the crew. Despite the fact the whole of them would concur that the concept of a gargantuan cephalopod hunting them down was bloodcurdling, it was not Jack's prerogative to feel this way. As Captain, he had to be fearless, or at the very least, impassive. And yet, he couldn't even sort his thoughts efficiently enough to get a compass to point in a specific direction. Perhaps he truly was one of the _worst _pirates.

"Eh, Jack," Mr. Gibbs spoke, breaking him from his reverie. "About Anamaria…you don't find it strange that the _last_ time we saw her she was Captain of her own crew, and now we've found her again in Tortuga as a bar maid?"

Jack slipped the compass back within his inner breast pocket, adjusting his jacket to sit more comfortably on his shoulders.

"No," he responded casually. "Our dear Anamaria has clearly lost interest in her former career."

He strolled over to an opened crate of apples, turning one over in his hand to inspect it, with no real purpose for doing so other than to appear occupied.

"It takes a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to Captain a ship, Mr. Gibbs, and I'm not _entirely_ sure Anamaria had it."

"And what would that be, Mr. Sparrow?"

The two men swiveled around on their heels to face the direction of the female voice. Upon seeing Anamaria standing before them, arms crossed tightly over her chest and an expression of undeniable offense painted on her features, Jack's grip slackened on the apple in his right hand and Mr. Gibbs took another restoring nip from his flask.

"Anamaria!" Jack exclaimed with simulated delight, striding over to her with arms outward as if eliciting an embrace. "How remarkably fortuitous!"

"I'm not here for pleasantries, Jack." Anamaria explained unenthusiastically, ignoring the pirate's outstretched appendages.

Jack dropped his arms to his sides, his face falling with them.

"Is this how you greet all old friends, love?"

She sneered, exhaling loudly through her nose.

"_Friends…_hardly. A friend wouldn't steal and sink another friend's boat."

Jack brought his pointer finger upwards in front of her face, waving it rhythmically with his words.

"Borrowed. Without permission." He corrected matter-of-factly.

As her mahogany eyes made a 360 degree revolution in their sockets, Anamaria stepped out of the forward path of the docking bay to reveal the hard-bitten, ex-Commodore Norrington, somehow looking more filthy than he did at the bar as he spewed his insides over the side of the railing.

"I believe you forgot this," she explained sardonically.

Jack swung his head around Anamaria's shoulder to get a better look at the newest and most neglected member of the crew. At first glance he could only contort his face into a scowl of disgust, wondering why in the world he would have hired such an ill-begotten wretch, the stench and outward appearance of whom put any pirate to shame. At this point of vulnerability, of course, Jack had selectively forgotten being held at gunpoint.

"Y_ou look bloody awful, mate," _he observed, continuing to wince at the sight of Norrington as though he were watching a live flaying. "_What are you doing here?" _

The former Commodore swung himself outward from the dock railing, facing Jack with a mixture of mud and vomit coagulated on his face and ends of his wig.

"_You hired me," _he reminded the Captain, incredulously. "_I can't help it if your standards are lax." _

Anamaria attempted to repress a chuckle with the back of her palm, but was unable to prevent a few snorts and the entire span of her smile from Jack's view. He jarred himself backwards to eye her with a disbelieving sense of betrayal before pivoting his head back around the frame of her body to retort to Norrington,

"_You smell funny." _

"Jack," Anamaria interjected, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder so to get his full attention and pull him back to face her. "I want to make it clear that I came here to help the Commodore and _nothin' more_. I'd hate for anyone to get a false impression."

He could only return her statement with a contemplative narrowing of his raccoon-rimmed eyes, as the seedling of an idea began to sprout in his head.

_Strong, resolute Anamaria. _If there was anyone who knew exactly what she wanted from the world, it was her. Uncertainty was not a word that featured into her lexicon, and she had yet to take too kindly to anyone that made a habit of pussy-footing. _Well, she had yet to take too kindly to anyone at all, but that was another matter…_

It immediately occurred to him, like lightning striking a metal pole, that the compass would only be of use in the hands of his former first mate, a woman who always had a clear, succinct notion of that which she desired. At the immediate moment, however, she was clearly confused on the proper method of arriving at her coveted destination. His scheme, he deduced, would possibly benefit the both of them.

"_Is that really what you want most?" _he challenged charmingly, swaying gently as he locked eyes with her. "To work as a barmaid in Tortuga for the rest of your life? To serve _gentleman _their ale as they paw at you where they please? To lace up corsets and clean bedrooms far more luxurious than anything you'd ever even dream of sleeping in?"

She shifted uncomfortably, hugging her arms close to her chest as though she had been embraced by an arctic breeze. Her expression of disdainful skepticism struggled to not be replaced by something more defenseless.

"No, 'course not. It's a means to get by for the time bein', is all. I mean to find a ship on my own terms and with my own resources."

Jack grinned impishly as he retrieved the compass from the inner pocket of his jacket, his eyes never abandoning hers.

"_Because I would think," _he began. "You'd want to find a way that appeals to your inner _pirate _to come across said ship."

He then revealed the instrument by unwrapping his fist, holding it out to her alluringly.

She could only shift her unimpressed, quizzical gaze from him to the compass and back a few times, wrinkling the right side of her nose as she did so.

"And what would your broken compass have to do with a ship for me?"

His eyelids momentarily squeezed closer together as he took in a large, copious breath through his nostrils, rearing back from her slightly as though he had just come upon a miraculous break through but was attempting to mask his excitement and remain composed.

"It has _everything _to do with you and your ship. What do you know of Davy Jones?"

It was at this point that the ex-Commodore began adding his cynical two-cents to the conversation and thoroughly annoying Jack, as the man clearly had no idea what he was talking about and was otherwise merely adding static, abrupt noise that cut off a cohesive train of thought.

"_Oh please,_" he exclaimed with sarcastic disbelief. "_The Captain of the Flying Dutchman?" _

Ignoring him, Anamaria wet her lips and regarded the individual before her with an expression that was difficult to decipher.

"I know as much about him as any self-respectin' pirate should," she stated firmly, before leaning in to closer. "Why? Is there anythin' else?"

The exchange of information between the Captain and his former First Mate had begun to transcend physical boundaries. Their eyes remained firmly locked, searching each other for clues into the other's psyche. She figured her ability to know when he was withholding the entire truth had come from her years of having to interact with him, from years of learning what each and every expression meant, from years of seeing how he conned everyone else, from years of observing that no matter how close one gets with Jack, he's no less likely to stab that person in the back if it could somehow benefit him. She knew there was a certain amount of heartlessness to his character, and so she was able to admit that he was obviously attempting to take advantage of her through charm. He had done it before successfully, and she'd curse herself a million times over for the fact that he could just as easily do it again.

But perhaps there was no side of this equation that could potentially hurt her. Perhaps this plan had every likelihood of restoring her position as a Captain and he was merely being outwardly crafty because he suspected she wouldn't have consented to doing things this way otherwise. He was probably right, she admitted, as she had promised herself she'd retrieve a ship through her own efforts. His so-called _pirate _method involving Davy Jones seemed like the opposite of her own honorable intentions, but then again, she knew exactly what she was and had no qualms with owning it. She was a _pirate, _through and through. She wasn't now, nor ever would be a barmaid, no matter how many girdles she tied, beds she made, or mugs she served. A true _pirate_ would consent to Captain Sparrow's plan while keeping their eyes out for betrayal and not being afraid to do a bit of it themselves if circumstances required. She figured her destiny, which apparently took the form of dreadlocks and gold-capped teeth, had come back for her, just as it always would no matter how long she tried to withhold it or convince herself she was something other than what she was.

"Then you are aware of the chest, correct?"

James Norrington sighed loudly, rolling around in exasperated disbelief on the wooden dock railing and clapping a palm over his eyes.

"_Oh, dear…" _

"Of course," she admitted. "The chest of unknown size and origin what contains-"

"-_the still beating heart of Davy Jones. Precisely." _

The coarse, scabrous fabric of the cloth that was perpetually wrapped securely around Jack's palms suddenly grazed against the backs of her hands, which had until that moment been hanging limply by her sides. Taking her hands in his, he gently brought them forward and together to rest, cupped, in the space separating them both. He secured the compass in the nest of her palms and closed them together with his own. Holding her hands closed over the small box he spoke softly, eyes never straying.

"This compass, contrary to wide-belief, is in fact, quite unique."

Norrington's boisterous and slightly discordant voice jarred the moment once more, interrupting Jack's hypnotizing method of persuasion.

"_Unique here having the_ _meaning of broken…" _

It took most of Jack's patience and resilience to keep from bringing out his pistol and doing away with the intrusive nuisance right then and there, Anamaria being the only force withholding him from doing so as this action would no doubt ruin any of his prior efforts to entice.

"_True enough," _he admitted with feigned enthusiasm. "_This compass does not point north."_

Anamaria's tawny eyes were still riddled with distrust as she beheld her counterpart, attempting to force disinterest through intrigue.

"I assume there is a practical reason for this_?"_ she questioned, knowing full well his vague point about the compass not being able to point north was meant to peak her curiosity, which she was loath to admit it had.

"_It points to the thing you want most in this world." _

He said this in a near whisper, his voice taking on an unmistakable air of mysticism as he looked deeper into her eyes than he had in the course of the entire conversation. He was fully aware that this was the defining moment when Anamaria would either refuse or accept, and he would have to play his cards just right to get the desired response. As resilient as she was, she had yet to refuse his charms and he prided himself on being one of the only men capable of having this power over her.

She was fully aware of this, and knew that there was nothing special about the way he was observing her now, him having done so before her eyes to countless other members of the opposite sex, most prone to swooning. She knew it didn't mean anything to him, no matter how sincere his piercing, mahogany eyes might have appeared or how deep the gaze they shared. She knew all of this as well as she knew her own name, and yet, there remained a lingering voice, a yearning inside of her head that so desperately wanted to believe his every seductive word and movement towards her meant something more. She could tell herself time and time again that this was not the case, as well as be fully acquainted with Jack Sparrow's usual tactics. Yet, this was never enough to dissuade her inner-self. When it came down to it, she was always going to give him the benefit of the doubt, hoping, _pathetically, in her opinion, _that he finally felt towards her a semblance of what she felt towards him that she fought so passionately to hide.

"_You don't actually believe him, do you?"_ Came Norrington's sobering voice from her left shoulder, the salvation she desperately needed to pull her from her reverie.

"Absolutely not," she attested firmly. But as she shifted her position, she added with evident feigned resoluteness, "But the way I see it, I'm no better off on the Pearl than I am in Tortuga. I've so far had no luck securing a ship there, so perhaps I might find better fortune in a change of scenery."

Jack grinned victoriously, applying slight pressure to their joined hands.

"Then it is your responsiblity to find that which you want _most of all. _Which, in this case, is to find the chest of Davy Jones so that you may be granted the ship and crew of a pirate Captain's wildest dreams, is it not?"

She could only nod as he immediately released his grasp and scampered off to the side so to avoid interfering with the compasses' power.

A tense moment of breathlessness ensued for everyone who had been keeping an ear on the conversation as the compass arrow wheedled uncertainly around and around the roulette of directions. The box began to grow warm in her hands as she continued to watch fixedly, impressed at how much surface the area the arrow had already covered. Normally, it simply bounced between south and east, but she had never seen anyone other than Jack hold it, and if the stories he told of its abilities were true, his indecisiveness would be excellent reasoning for the compass' inability to give a definite reading.

Finally, the uncharacteristically active arrow began to slow down between east and south, bouncing back discordantly between the two before choosing the Southeast as its final resting place. The breaths that had been withheld were immediately withdrawn in awe, including her own as she had, up until that moment, only partially believed Jack's half-baked story. She had never seen the compass actually land on a direction, and so this seemingly simple development was remarkable, considering the circumstances.

Jack leapt up from where he had been squatting in hiding, eyeing the compass to confirm its decisiveness.

"_Mr. Gibbs!" _he announced triumphantly. "_We have our heading!" _


	6. Prisoner at Sea

A/N: So here's the first of many chapters to come in this immense update. I had made a large move across the country back in January and since have been living on my own, in a state of undeniable squalor (that happens when you're a college student out on your own for the first time). Because of this fact, I have refrained from buying my own internet connection as there are more important purchases to be given room in my budget (like food for example). Meanwhile, I've been using small pockets of time in between work and school to write. One of my projects has been this story, so I've accumulated quite an archive of chapters in the past few months.

For those of you who have become (and remain) enthusiastic about this story, I thank you and hope you overlook the long periods of time that pass in between my updates. The good news is I'm still as excited about this story as I was when I started (a rarity for me, I admit. I suppose having commitment issues in this aspect of my life is ahelluva lot better than having them in other, more important genres of my existence).

As I've done before in this story, this chapter derails a bit from the focus of the two main characters. I do this so that we might keep tabs on the other characters and so that the complex, cluster fuck of a plot that is Dead Man's Chest might make a bit more cohesive sense in this universe. Maybe, I don't know. Also, I thought some people might get tired of hearing about what's going on The Black Pearl and want to see some coinciding events for a change.

Anyway, here is chapter 6. Enjoy!

She wondered to herself how long it had been since the night she departed Port Royal. On this ship, time seemed to melt into itself until it became an unintelligible mass of a homogenous substance, like wax from a candle that had been burning for far too long.

Everyday was the same routine upon a legitimate, merchant vessel of the Crown. The same chores were conducted at the same hour, and though the Captain had urged her to rest in her quarters, she assisted with the assignments under the guise of a cabin boy so to avoid the insanity brought upon by perpetual boredom. She supposed it was unexpected of a Governor's daughter to want to keep herself busy, but she wasn't going to let a need for propriety in the face of Captain Whitting keep her from retaining her sanity.

Captain Alexander Whitting, a close friend of her father's, had proven himself to be an especially attentive host, making absolute sure that she felt as comfortable as humanly possible. Of course, this was _his _definition of comfort for someone of her status, and she didn't exactly find that it suited her individual needs very well. He had put together a stateroom for her near the captain's quarters, decorated with exotic pillows, blankets, and furniture from all around the globe. She guessed that he had borrowed some objects of his own stateroom to add to the atmosphere. He had made sure there was a vanity, presumably for her to spend hours gazing at herself in, and a window with a chair placed strategically beside it, so that she might spend the remaining hours of the day staring longingly out the window to an open ocean, while thinking about her fiancée and how, against her will, she had committed the ultimate betrayal of leaving him for England.

It became apparent that Captain Whitting expected her to remain in her stateroom at all times so that the crewmembers would remain ignorant to the presence of a woman on board. He assured her that many of them were good, decent men, and the likelihood of her safety being compromised by any of their _masculine needs_ was very, very slim. Nevertheless, he confessed that he just did not want to test the honor of his men, and would rather have temptation removed from their paths. Captain Whitting also did not neglect to mention, with a rather absurd flush to his cheeks, that Elizabeth Swann was a very beautiful woman.

She knew she should have been flattered that Captain Alexander had taken a fondness to her and that she should have been equally as grateful to him for his extra efforts to insure a comfortable voyage. But despite it all, she couldn't help but feel an overwhelming amount of frustration for the position she was in and repulsion towards his subtle advances. All of the volatile anger within her, brought upon by the initial cause of postponing her wedding ceremony, had found the time to accumulate within her and she knew very well that Captain Whitting would become her medium through which to vent her rage -a majority of which had nothing to do with him- if she didn't try to focus on something else, like peeling potatoes for the ship's cook. Even so, she still found herself being unnecessarily cold to him, and constantly reprimanded herself for the behavior that she found impossible to repress.

"Miss Swann, with all due respect, I don't think it's the best idea for you to masquerade as a cabin boy during the day. I do believe I've already listed my apprehension of the subject," Captain Whitting reminded her, it being one of the many evenings he would bring her to his office to converse over tea.

"Captain Whitting," she replied, daintily crossing her legs while still dressed in filthy Cabin Boy attire. "Might I remind _you_ that I have a very short attention span, and asking me to remain in my stateroom all day is the same as asking me to endure hours of self-inflicted torture. No, you see, it is only healthy for me to stay occupied."

"I could find you some needles and thread, if you like?" he offered, to which she attempted to unnoticeably roll her eyes. "A seamstress would be quite a useful commodity on the ship, if you'd be at all interested in assisting us with that?"

She would have laughed out loud, had it not been inappropriate to do so. The fact of the matter was, Elizabeth had never properly learned how to sew, nor had she ever been keen to learn. Her father had been encouraging the maids to teach her the art of a needle and thread since she was four, but because of her lack of interest and a tendency to abruptly drop the utensils to pursue something else in the near vicinity that was much more alluring, many of her caretakers had given up hope. This wasn't encouraging for her father, as he knew many women of status often got together to sew or knit. He feared Elizabeth would surely fall behind societal graces if she didn't know how. However, the move to the Caribbean made this paternal worry fall by the wayside, as there weren't many other women of status to socialize with anyway. Of course, she soon realized, this concern was likely to become more relevant as she was currently on a path back to England where half of the population was comprised of rich, gossiping seamstresses.

"Sir, I can't sew any better than I can keep myself in my room," she answered firmly. "Anyway, there _isn't _anything wrong with the men on your ship. I've talked to many of them already and they're perfect gentleman."

Despite the compliment, Elizabeth recognized that the sailors were about as gentlemanly as sailors can possibly be. However, compared to the types of crewmen she had dealt with in the past, Captain Whitting's crew looked like the English nobility. This didn't seem to sway Captain Whitting's opinion in the slightest, as he began to massage his temples in frustration.

"Miss Swann, I realize that it is a very romantic notion to believe that one could trust everyone. And yes, my men are very trustworthy; I wouldn't have hired them otherwise."

He then leaned across the desk, staring directly into her eyes as he gradually closed the gap between them two. She couldn't help but rear back slightly, afraid their foreheads might make contact.

"But believe me when I tell you this. A man's loyal dog is still an animal within, not devoid of the certain instincts that he is born with simply because he has been trained well. If that same dog was to be deprived of food long enough, there would come a day when he would eat any and everything that made itself available- including his beloved master. My men, though raised and trained to have self-restraint, are still men. Do you have any idea how long they've gone without seeing their wives? Without seeing any member of the opposite sex?"

"I'm sure you've made port at some point," Elizabeth added, causing Captain Alexander's eyes to widen from the implications of her statement.

"Miss Swann, I can assure you that my men and I refrain from any such activity," he assured, his enlarged eyes now surveying the room as if someone might have been close enough to hear and become offended.

She smirked, observing the creases of middle-age on his forehead become more pronounced. This wasn't the first time she had taken notice of this, as there had been many an evening spent over tea with him in his stateroom as he lectured her in a very fatherly manner, facial wrinkles becoming all the more evident the more agitated he became. Elizabeth could easily see why he and her father had become friends, and even more so why the Governor had chosen Captain Alexander to ask for safe passage of his daughter to England. Clearly, the fact that he was Captain of a merchant ship and could easily slip into Port Royal under the guise of conducting business had much to do with her father's decision, but, she suspected, so did the fact that the Captain and her father saw eye to eye on a lot of paternal values. She knew quite well her father would be in accord with the Captain's request for her to remain hidden.

"I think you'd be delusional to think such a thing, Captain," she mentioned, grinning at him humorously. "But as you have insisted, you know your men better than I."

"Indeed!" he exclaimed with an air of callous sarcasm, rising rapidly from his seated position. He planted the palms of his hands on the surface of his desk, leaning forward on them to once again make closer eye contact with Elizabeth in, what she assumed to be, an effort to emphasize his point.

"I'd find _you_ delusional to think anything different. Now that I believe I'd made my point clear, I'll hold you responsible to honor my wishes, Miss Swann."

She didn't particularly like this unfamiliar tone of finality, appreciating much more the man who would passively let her defy and ridicule him. Though she couldn't blame him for having reached the limit of his rather generous amount of patience, she still felt the angst of the young child being told not to do something and being unable to sway the dominant party to their side, despite the fact that the child understands perfectly why such an act is discouraged.

"Captain Whitting, I am a grown woman!" she argued fiercely, making tight, unflinching fists in her lap.

The Captain's auburn strands were beginning to immerge from his once neat, low ponytail, highlighting the subtle streaks of grey that ran through his scalp, tellingly.

"Then it would be in your best interest to start acting like one!" he bellowed, a vein beginning to surface underneath the flesh of his crimson forehead.

Elizabeth had endured all she could muster. With an audible huff of ultimate offense, she rose from her chair sharply, not neglecting to give the Captain a death glare before spinning on her heel, exiting the office, and intentionally slamming the door behind her.

The desire to get off the ship as soon as possible, which had been dormant and idle within her for the past few weeks, had suddenly become the highest of her priorities. What was once a mere yearning had miraculously evolved into a necessity, as important to her as water or oxygen.

One way or another, she would find a way off of the merchant ship and back to her fiancée. This time, however, she wouldn't let anything stand in her way.


	7. Swabbing the Deck

The deck could never be too clean.

Or, so she continued to repeat to herself as she scrubbed the same area with increasing ferocity, clenching her teeth together tightly as if to keep the vocal equivalent of her thoughts behind locked behind them.

There was something therapeutic about heavy, laborious cleaning when she became agitated. At the bar, she would simply fall back to the kitchen and take over dish duty for an hour or so when serving the customers became too emotionally taxing. On the ship, chores to preoccupy herself with were similar to some of the others in Tortuga and certainly more plentiful. She had cleaned many floors at the bar and on previous ships like this; hands and knees on the ground, a bucket of suds beside her, a coarse brush in hand. However, the fact that it was noon on a clear day in the Caribbean added a new layer of complexity- the blazing heat from the sun that baked her flesh and soaked her airy, cotton shirt in perspiration.

She actually preferred it. The more unbearable the job, the more able she was to forget her regret about re-joining a pirate crew, her perpetual disgust with Jack's behavior, or the even more revolting sensation of nauseating airiness in the pit of her stomach whenever he paid her special attention.

The grating of bristles against wood were enough to make his words unintelligible, but not sufficient to drown him out all together as he conversed with Mr. Gibbs a few feet away. She could hear the egotism in every syllable that slipped from his lips, as no matter the nature of the conversation, his tone was always ridden with noticeable narcissism.

Why, in god's name, did it have to be him? Why was it always so that the most independent of women had to fall for men who prided themselves on claiming and tossing the opposite sex like objects? Was self-sufficiency and aggression in females simply a product of an insecurity that they subconsciously always knew they had? Namely, to favor chauvinistic men over those who were respectful and worthwhile? She cringed at the thought, but couldn't think of an explanation with any more ease than she could for why she had fallen in love with Jack in the first place.

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He couldn't remember much from the previous night. The events would come to him, occasionally, in sporadic, jumbled scenes that had no clear chronological order. He could, however, remember the early evening more clearly, as he had yet to consume any alcohol and was just recovering from his binge from the night before.

It had all the attributes of an ordinary, routine evening on Tortuga, the kind he had been experiencing for, what he estimated to be, close to three weeks now. He drank himself into a stupor, slept until midday in the streets or the beach-wherever he managed to swagger off to before passing out-, and allowed himself to recover and eat a light meal at the bar before starting the cycle all over again. It was a pathetic existence, but it numbed the sting of failure significantly, and since he was either drunk or asleep a majority of the time, he had never an ample opportunity to contemplate the gravity of his situation.

Unbeknownst to him, however, this night would be different from the others. On this night, the man whom he felt most comfortable with laying the blame on for landing him in his current position would miraculously turn up in the very bar he haunted. This was not the reason he had chosen Tortuga as his new place of residence, nor had he been scheming possible forms of retribution when the pirate Captain made his inevitable appearance. It had all just fallen into place very conveniently, and he didn't feel the need to think anything through when he made his way over to the recruiting table. Somehow, without ever consulting himself on the matter beforehand, he knew exactly what he'd say to Jack Sparrow, and exactly what he'd do with the pistol that now felt particularly warm and heavy on his belt.

After that, the memory became hazy. He could recall an abundant amount of pirates all coming at him at once. He could remember attempting to swat them away like flies with his rapier, and their numbers never seeming to decrease. He could remember seeing the empty, upturned table where Jack and Mr. Gibbs once sat, and the thought of disdain and frustration that had run through his head upon noticing this. But the figure that was, surprisingly, more prevalent than any other from that night, was the dark-skinned woman that had both brought him to his demise and promptly rescued him from it.

The remainder of memorable tidbits floating around in his consciousness seemed to all feature her. He could remember walking with her down the cobbled streets, leaning against her surprisingly strong, yet much smaller form. He couldn't exactly recall anything they had said, only remembering the conversation as pleasant, and the tone of her voice as calmingly melodious. His first glimpse of her face, when she had rescued him from suffocation, also stuck vividly in his mind, and more so than many experiences he'd had while not intoxicated.

He'd found an unexpected comfort in the serenity of her features. Though her eyes were stern, focused, and her jaw was clenched tightly in undying aggression, her expressions were not without a certain aura of comfort and a tranquility that he had never known. He didn't think it was only due to the fact that she had shown him selfless kindness, as the feeling had yet to dissipate when he looked at her even now.

He had been wracking his brain all morning to come up with something to say to her. She had taken no effort to acknowledge him, and while it was true the entirety of the crew had been preoccupied the whole time with getting the voyage underway, it was no less discouraging. He knew they had shared a rather pleasant, relaxing interaction the night before, and he wouldn't be satisfied with metaphorically sweeping the whole thing under the carpet, even if he couldn't remember the conversation. Furthermore, he found himself inexplicably fascinated with her, and in the spirit of any proper scientist, wanted to investigate the issue in more depth.

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"How strange. I could have sworn I saw myself in this particular spot of the deck."

Two, sickeningly familiar, sea-worn leather boots emerged into her peripheral as she abruptly halted scrubbing. She could feel her heart jump into her throat with a nauseating mixture of fear and disappointment. As her eyes traveled upward, the figure she had been arduously trying to avoid all morning began to materialize before her.

"I think you've dedicated enough time and effort to that brush and bucket. I propose some time off."

The bandaged, calloused, ring-encrusted hand of Jack Sparrow reached down to receive hers. She couldn't help but notice the neck of a rum bottle clutched in the other, and immediately realized the nature of the impending situation, sighing softly and briefly clenching her eyelids shut.

_I'm busy. Leave me alone. Go away. I want to be left alone. _

Any of these responses would suffice, she told herself. Insist upon his departure and he'll quickly lose interest. _You don't want his attention._

But she did. Against her better judgment and everything else she stood for, she did. She wanted him to notice her, to request her company, and how could she possibly turn from an opportunity where he was doing just that?

She accepted his hand, feeling her stomach drop to her knees as he helped her to her feet. Her heart and mind would never come to terms with another in this issue, that much she was sure of. As the two made their way to his stateroom, talking idly to one another, undeniably flirting back-and-forth, a war was waged inside of her and, as per usual, her heart was the reigning champion.

Unbeknownst to her, however, there was the heart of a nearby spectator that experienced the contrary as the owner watched her disappear with Jack into the Captain's quarters. _His_ organ fell to his knees in a similar fashion to her stomach, realizing with much discontent that the Dominican woman, his savior, was already spoken for. Quietly, he returned to his task of mopping, wishing with every fiber of his being that he had been left to rot.


	8. Evening Chat

A/N: When I initially finished this chapter, I was worried that the dialogue would be, for lack of a better word, too corny. When I reread it a few moments ago, however, I found myself more pleased with it than before. Hopefully you'll like it too, even if it is an obvious overt attempt on my part to be funny. If nothing else, I think it's pretty cute, which is what I was aiming for to begin with. So, mission accomplished? You tell me.

BTW, I truly appreciate so many people adding me to their alert list, favorite story, etc, etc. However, I've noticed a lot of people have been doing _just _that, _only _that. If you're going to the trouble of adding this story to all your lists, you might as well review it too, right? I _love_ feedback, specifically those that are intricately constructive. But even a "Hey, great job" or "I could do better" would totally suffice.

Thanks, enjoy!

_---------------------------------------------------------------------_

_He chuckled softly as he hoisted his feet onto his desk and leaned back casually into his chair. _

"_You do remember what happened that one night we were in here conversing over a bottle, don't you Anamaria?"_

_How could she ever forget? Would he ever let her? More to the point, would she ever let herself?_

_Being already a bit hazy from partaking in more than she had previously allotted for herself, she found it difficult to have her point taken seriously as much by herself as by Jack. _

"_Now, see here," she began, feeling the upper portion of her body begin to pitch. "I won't have any of that from here on out. No…funny business." _

_She then giggled as she took another swig, proceeding to pass it on to him from across the desk. _

_He smirked as he received it from her, relishing the rarity and delight of seeing her in such a state. _

"_Are you certain?" he questioned facetiously. "Because I do believe we might have a reprise this evening."_

_She could only laugh, throwing her head back as she did so, not entirely understanding why and finding it all the more humorous that she didn't. _

"_What say, you?" he asked, leaning across the desk. _

_Without saying a word in response, they both already knew the answer._

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_

Being that the day had been clear, sunny, and brutally scorching, it was only appropriate the night was cloudless and of a fair temperature, allowing relief to all inhabitants of the Caribbean.

He loved how bright and distinctive the stars were at night in the middle of the ocean. He supposed it was one of the many factors that had caused him to fall in love with the open waters in the first place. He often took advantage of the situation by lounging out on the deck just before bed, sometimes making a resting surface from crates if available, or simply stretching out on the wood itself. This evening, he found himself sitting on a nearby barrel while leaning against the wall of the quarter deck. It had been impossible for him to relax long enough to fall asleep, and he found the same trouble even when attempting to observe the stars.

Lately, he had been giving great thought to his life before the storm that had been so earnestly and remorselessly taken from him. Because the abundance of alcohol was no longer copiously at his disposal, he had been given extra time to mull the matter over with a clear head. This had made him long for his prior commission more hungrily than anything before, consequently making him increasingly furious at whoever was responsible for his downfall in the first place. He knew it could not have been due to his own error. He had only ever wanted to do what was right, to put others before himself, to faithfully maintain his rigid moral code. A person like that could not have possibly deserved or been the cause of whatever misfortune befell him. A person like that was always the victim of another careless individual's actions.

In this case, he supposed said careless individual had to be Jack. He _was_ the pirate after all, the one who should have been caught by the Commodore. He was the one who had almost, and should have been, in James' opinion, hung for his crimes against the crown. Did Jack Sparrow care at all that Commodore Norrington had been ruined because of his misdeeds? Not in the least bit. If anything, Jack's indifference made James angrier than if he had been delighted.

However, he had decided at this point that seething over Jack's thoughtlessness did nothing to help restore his honor. He would have to find a way to earn back his commission from Port Royal's self-proclaimed dictator, Cutler Beckett, as well as get his inevitable arrest warrant revoked. Only so much time could pass before the powers that be realized James Norrington was accountable for the most recent escape of Jack Sparrow.

It was at this moment that the slamming of a door interrupted his thoughts. Twisting his neck to get a look in the direction of the noise, he soon saw that it was the door to the Captain's quarters and the individual responsible was the sole female member of the crew. Even in the darkness her look of wounded resentment was distinguishable, and became even more evident through her forceful, rapid movements as she stomped over to the deck railing and plopped on to her elbows with a huff.

He was close to giving up all hope of ever speaking to her, having received the impression earlier that same day that her interests lay elsewhere, but he discovered an elusive resource of encouragement having witnessed this development. Whatever interaction she had with Jack had been a negative one and she would undoubtedly appreciate having someone else to vent her feelings to.

He rose from his seated position and made his way across the deck to where she had chosen to fume. His movements were gradual and quiet, partially due to his hesitance from not knowing exactly what to say to her, and from a concern to not disturb.

"I don't believe I've ever thanked you properly for what you did," he mentioned, having come within close proximity of her and guessing that she probably would not want to discuss the most recent turn of events.

She jumped slightly and whipped around to face him with a look of subtle surprise, relaxing instantly upon seeing whom the voice belonged to.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd remember," she confessed bluntly, facing back towards the water. "Either from the alcohol or pride…"

He couldn't help but feel slightly taken back by her comment, knowing full-well there was merit to what she said, but not wanting to fully admit this fact to himself. He then invited himself to lean back against the railing beside her, facing the opposite direction towards the ship. He could have sworn he saw her recoil slightly at this development, but chose to ignore it.

"Fact of the matter is, I do," he replied with slight derision to his tone. "And frankly, I can't help but wonder what would induce such a selfless act…"

His head then swung over in her direction, eyeing her with passive accusation as he added, "…particularly from the one who saw fit to render me unconscious with a rum bottle."

Her head snapped sharply back to him, her expression a mixture of an abhorrent glare and stunned guilt.

"You were makin' a fool of yourself," she explained abrasively. "I would think myself fortunate, if I were you. No doubt you would have been sliced to shreds otherwise, not unlike your poor coat."

She pinched the fabric of the shoulder as she said this, bringing it up slightly to make the damage of the clothing item more visible in the glow of the moon. He shrugged it away from her in indignation, exhaling audibly through his nose.

"Not to mention you were disturbin' the peace. We'd gone two months without havin' a fight."

He chuckled in response, feeling his sardonic sense of humor getting the best of him. It had been so long since he had let himself be publicly cynical, and he was too hard-hit at this point to repress it any longer for courtesy's sake.

"Two months in a Tortuga pub? You honestly expect me to believe that?"

She rolled her eyes dramatically, but was helpless to suppress a soft grin that began to emerge on her lips.

"Well, two weeks, anyway," she resigned. "But that doesn't change the fact that you made a complete spectacle. If it weren't for my generosity you would have met a much worse fate than hog-fodder."

What remained of his blithe mood quickly dissipated into an unadulterated somber contemplation. His eyes slowly drifted downward to his enclosed hands, his slight smile evaporating.

"Well, so much the better," he admitted, glancing briefly at the dark horizon.

She quickly picked up on his abrupt change in attitude, beginning to understand and identify with the reasoning for it.

"You know, the hurricane found me, as well," she mentioned, softly, turning around to lean against the railing, mirroring him.

He gradually shifted his eyes to survey her, not wanting to make his intrigue overly evident.

"I suppose I thought we could ride it out and that my ship could endure it," she continued, focusing her attention downward, to the fabric of her sleeves. "Instead, I lost both the crew and the ship at sea. I washed up on Tortuga like a beached whale, with nothing but the weight of my choices to comfort me."

"Sounds familiar," he admitted.

"The past is the past," she added, straightening her posture with seemingly forced confidence. "The only real thing one can do is learn to accept it and move on."

He didn't understand her passivity with the matter, and even found himself feeling inexplicably indignant.

"Move on?" he repeated coarsely. "How could one move on from a matter that was explicitly brought upon them by someone or something else? How could you ask a man to ignore injustice?"

"Injustice?" she relayed, mockingly, cocking an eyebrow and turning to face him directly. "Who is it that you plan to accuse? The storm?"

He so desperately wanted to answer her mocking query with a statement of equal magnitude. He wasn't yet accustom to playing the role of the individual left stumped, and found he didn't quite like the mortifying discomfort.

"It was _him _I was chasing," he uttered through a clenched jaw, motioning his head towards the captain's quarters. "You know that as well as I."

She scoffed, surveying him with amused disbelief.

"What, Jack?" she countered, acerbically. "You plan to blame Jack and expect him to accept the consequences?"

He then abruptly stood up straight, clapping his right hand against the railing as he did so.

"I don't expect that _pirate_ to accept anything."

He then turned on his heel and began to storm off, plagued by a frustration that was caused by an inability to refute Anamaria's points and a feeling of unfairness that she, the one person who evidently knew his pain on a personal level, refused to offer any sympathy.

"You really shouldn't use the title in disdain," she called after him. "After all, you're one of _us_ now."

The weight of this realization was heavy enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Even after joining a pirate crew, he had yet to consider himself a _pirate_, of all things. He had never thought of himself as having sunk lower than mud in a pig's sty. The fact that he seemed to have found a way back to the oceans, albeit in a position that required swabbing decks and following the orders of his most abhorred enemy, was reassurance enough that he had begun the process of regaining a stable footing. But the truth was much the opposite- he had only resorted to something far worse and far more dishonorable.

"And you're really wastin' a lot of emotion on Jack," she explained further. "He's not the sort of person that can be intimidated or faulted into feelin' remorse."

He found himself slowly rotating back to face her, purely out of curiosity. He could hear the slight, repressed tone of regret in her words and was eager to see if it was any obvious in her expressions. She was focusing, once more, on her hands, twisting her fingers around one another absentmindedly as she leaned one elbow against the railing.

He then couldn't help but notice that her billowy, cotton shirt was hanging off her left shoulder, exposing the light ebony skin beneath, contrasting remarkably with the alabaster of the cloth. Her long, strands of dark brown hair had fallen behind her, occasionally waving like feathers when the wind picked up. The light of the moon picked up on the steep, curvaceous slope of her cheekbones, the razor-like sharpness of her jaw line, and the fullness of her tawny lips as she gazed downward, making the tranquility of her features all the more evident. Having surveyed her at this captivating moment of vulnerability, he found it difficult not to let go of his aggravation and make a raw attempt to console her.

"I suppose you know this from personal experience?" he prodded, adapting a much softer tone.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, smiling sadly.

"Unfortunately."

A small silence ensued in which he wondered to himself whether he should pry further into the ordeal or leave it alone. True, he was curious to know the exact dynamics of their relationship, but he also felt a certain amount of empathy for her position.

"You know, I _do_ understand the concept of unrequited love," he stated, attempting to shatter the awkward wall between them.

"Do you?" she exclaimed facetiously. "I'd expect a Commodore to have all women at his disposal!"

"The stereotypes are false," he confessed with a smirk.

She lifted her chin, slightly, as she surveyed him with bemusement. She had evidently been pulled from her momentary brood by her delight at his inability to get whatever woman he desired, even with the title of _Commodore._

"So who was she?" she queried with a mischievous grin, leaning her chin against her fist of the arm that was on the railing as he gradually made his way back beside her.

"No one of consequence, I suppose," he sighed. "It was simple, really. We were engaged, initially, and then she decided she was in love with someone else."

"No one of consequence, eh? Then why would you ask her to marry you?"

"While we're on the subject," he interjected with a voice of much louder tenor, hoping to change the course of the conversation. "Why don't you explain the nature of your relationship with our _Captain_?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes, proceeding to turn around and slump down against the ship's side to a sitting position.

"I'll tell you," she began slyly, as he eyed her strangely from his much higher position. "But you have to join me down here."

"Down there? I don't see why we can't discuss it standing up," he retorted, not fully understanding her motives for this spontaneous gesture.

She peered up at him, her dark brown eyes meeting directly with his. He couldn't help but notice the sincerity of her expression which caused him to feel slightly guilty for not taking her seriously to begin with.

"I could only share that information with a friend. A friend wouldn't be afraid to compromise dignity to join me on the ground. I feel like I can trust you, but I'd like to know for certain,"

She then extended her hand upwards, offering him assistance to his feet.

"Are we friends, James?"

On the outside, it seemed like such a simple, meaningless request. All she had asked was for him to sit with her on the deck of the ship as opposed to standing, assumingly because the fatigue in both of their knees was overwhelming for her. Internally, however, he saw much more depth to her appeal than that. She was asking him to forfeit his pride to prove his trustworthiness. As a Commodore, he would have never had to sit on a deck to prove his honor to another individual, as his title alone spoke volumes about his own constancy. Doing so would have been, in a word, ridiculous. But as Anamaria had pointed out, and as he was steadily beginning to fully realize, he was no longer a Commodore and this wasn't the British Royal Navy. He was now, as much as he was loathe to admit it, a pirate in a pirate's crew. The etiquette was different, and if he expected to thrive at all in this harsh, unfamiliar environment, he knew he'd have to adapt.

He nodded to her reluctantly, accepting her hand. She seemed pleased at this development.

After wrapping her fingers around his hand, she then tightened her grip and brought him to the ground with a forceful yank, causing a loud _thump_ as he hit the wood. A few moments after he landing, he shot her look of horrified shock. She laughed heartily with her opposite hand wrapped around her mouth, rocking slightly with the force of her merriment.

"I felt like you needed a swift kick in the backside," she explained with mirth. "Just to get all of that British presumption out of you."

He at first felt slightly offended for unwittingly becoming the victim of her prank, but soon saw this initial emotion morph into a shared amusement. He chortled slightly, unable to maintain any trace of severity when she was laughing so hard and crimson clouds were beginning to blossom on her cheeks.

This exceedingly foreign method of interaction with the opposite sex was succeeding to completely throw him off guard. Up until that moment, he had never treated or been treated by a woman as though she were a fellow male. He had always seen the opposite sex as fragile, intangible, jeweled and painted china dolls that sat alluringly, yet ridiculously high on their metaphorical glass shelves, mocking the crowds of men that gathered at their feet like children, begging them to come down and be theirs. Like their china counterparts, a woman was not to be touched, moved, or even looked at for too long without sincere prospect. If one wished to address a woman, one had to first ask her permission, and as they so often did before he earned the title of Commodore, the woman would typically make an excuse not to in an attempt to maintain her false pleasantry, and then amble off in the opposite direction, bustle and hair curls bouncing in rhythmic unison like a peacock. This was the source of his intimidation with them, his reluctance to ever make an attempt to get to know a few of them so that he might have a larger array of potential brides.

This issue was, of course, alleviated when he earned his final, highest Naval rank. The decorated poodles that had for so long given him the cold shoulder began to flock to him like gaggles of geese, praising him for every aspect of his being; choice of dress, wig powder, the size of his sword. They would then suggest that he take one of them on a private outing sometime, that he spend his large amounts of wealth on jewels and feasts for one of the lucky _princesses_, and eventually, he supposed, ask one of them to marry him. It seemed only natural at that point to choose a bride, particularly one that didn't cling to him daily like a fly to a slice of fresh fruit. This method would secure him someone that agreed to be with him for a reason other than his station in life, assumingly someone pleasant that wouldn't perpetually sound like -or resemble- a chicken laying an egg, and who whose friends she invited over wouldn't fit this same description. A marriage would remove the unwanted attention, he hoped.

Elizabeth Swann was beautiful, more so than most women in Port Royal, but her grandest assets were that she was quiet, intelligent, and seemed to take no notice of him at all. She mostly kept to herself, never being seen in the middle of a gossip circle, giggling and hiding her blush behind an elaborate fan as they all did simultaneously. She was also the daughter of Governor Weatherbee Swann, a good friend and mentor of his that had known him his whole life and had been a friendly peer of his father before that. The match seemed to only make sense.

But as desirable as Elizabeth was, he knew there would be no speaking to her candidly. True, she was more obliging to act _unrefined_, to wield a weapon and fight bravely, as she exhibited in the previous fiasco with Jack Sparrow and the other privateer foes. But she was not fond of him and had absolutely no interest in getting to know him any further than she already did. She was uncomfortable and uneasy around him, a fact that he attempted to ignore as he continued to court her.

Anamaria, on the other hand, seemed to have dropped from an alternate layer of realty. Had she not so feminine an appearance, he knew he'd forget her gender altogether and think of himself as speaking with a man. He had never felt so comfortable around a member of the opposite sex, so willing to tell her anything and so certain that she would be able to accept and relate to it. Had Anamaria ever worn a frock, a corset? Had she ever been even slightly coy, refusing to reveal her entire face to anyone from behind her fan, as though to do so would be a special, earned privilege for the other individual? Had she ever been petted, spoiled, or treated as though she were the Queen of Sheba? He highly doubted it, and if so, she had made a refreshingly miraculous recovery.

He began to envy Jack so deeply, and for a reason other than he still maintained his rank as Captain, even if it was of a pirate ship. Did he understand what sort of woman he had earned the attention of? Probably not, James thought to himself, as Jack had many women at his disposal that would lift their skirts for any passerby as casually as they might hang out the laundry. But even they maintained their own, unrefined sense of Peacock-ness, an aura of entitlement and grandeur all around them, constantly expecting their loyal customers to supply them with gifts of jewelry, clothing, and sweets in addition to financial compensation.

Was there any other woman like Anamaria? Was there any other woman in existence that relied on herself for her basic necessities, that was fearless and unafraid to tell someone off, yet amiable and inviting at the same time? He had yet to meet her.

It was then that he realized her laugh had dwindled, and that the grasp they had taken of one another's hands remained. He was, at first, embarrassed, wanting to yank his appendage back immediately and apologize quickly under his breath with the hope of maintaining some dignity. But even as her giggle began to subside, she hadn't visibly taken any notice, and so he kept his hand clasped with hers, relishing the unfamiliar sensation of the calloused, yet significantly smaller, somehow delicate fingers against his palm. Though sexual activity with opposite sex was not unknown to his past, he had never held a woman's hand other than his mother's when he was young, and despite having no other frame of reference, he still felt that his and Anamaria's hand fit together with remarkable cohesion.

"So," she said finally, breaking him of his reverie. "You want to know about me and Jack?"

He nodded, feigning interest in this newest topic when his true attention was focused on their hands that had yet to release from one another. She still had failed to notice. He wondered how long it would last.

"It's about as simple as you and _former_ potential Mrs. Norrington," she continued, picking at the threads of her pants on her knee. "I suppose the best way to describe it would be to say that I'm in love with him and he frequently takes advantage of it. That's about all there is to it."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," James answered consolingly, gazing at her but mentally keeping tabs on the state of their hands.

"I would say it doesn't matter, but when I find myself unable to break free from his influence, I would say it _does_ matter, very much so."

"He's the reason you're on this ship, isn't he?" he mentioned, daringly. He knew it was risky question, but he felt, somehow, that she and he already knew the answer.

She then looked up from the fabric of her trousers to meet his eyes, her expression one of pained astonishment at his remarkable intuition. This was a fact that she had yet to admit even to herself, yet he had somehow predicted it with immaculate accuracy. While initially indignant, wanting to refute this truth, she gradually began to accept it as just that; a fact she couldn't contradict.

"What disappointment lies in store for our Captain when he realizes my influence on the compass is leadin' us nowhere near the chest of Davy Jones."

James nodded with understanding, but could not hold back a slight scoff at the mention of the alleged chest in legitimate terms.

"I believe said disappointment was to be expected at any rate, seeing as how the chest is about as factual as a fairytale."

Anamaria immediately glanced over at him, as if to quickly correct his logic with the assurance of the chest's genuineness. Instead, she chose to simply smile at him in a way that he found to be slightly pitying, and rather difficult to decipher beyond that.

He had formerly wanted to present to her his theory that Jack's story of Davy Jones was being used to cover up some larger, selfish conspiracy that he didn't want any of the others to know about. He had assumed, at that point in time, that she would have agreed with him, but the look he was just given made him believe otherwise. It seemed rather silly for a woman of her practicality to buy into a foolish sailor's myth, obviously used by her _loved one_ for another purpose. But then again, he supposed, perhaps she knew something he didn't.

Deciding it was a topic better left for later, as he found himself feeling the onset of elusive drowsiness, he started to rise to his feet, opening his mouth to bid her adieu until the next morning. He seemed to have forgotten, however, the state of their hands, which remained as it was from before. This condition was brought to light when he made an attempt to stand.

He was at first too stunned with mortification to say or do anything, and simply exchanged glances of surprise with her, mouth agape.

"My word," she began, corners of her mouth beginning to twitch in merriment. "Have we been this way the entire time?"

James swiftly, sharply took his hand back, using it to mindlessly sweep the front of his jacket off and as an excuse to look downward to hide his ridiculously enormous blush.

"Uhm…" he started, feeling himself quiver. "I…I suppose we have…"

Anamaria repeated her infectious laugh, rolling her head back as she had done before, revealing the sloping, rib-like grooves of her throat.

"How terribly sweet," she commented.

_How terribly sweet it was_, James thought to himself, _before you discovered it. Now it's painful. _

"Well, I'm afraid the night is no longer young," he mentioned, straightening the lapels of his coat and making every effort not to look Anamaria in the eye. "And a long day no doubt lies ahead of us. I, for one, have not yet become accustom to long term sleep deprivation and must get _some_ rest."

Anamaria's grin had yet to fade, and much to his surprise, did not seem to reverberate from the recent, humiliating occurrence. Instead, she seemed to radiate a certain bashful giddiness, as she was smiling down at her knees, now the unable party to make eye contact. He also couldn't help but notice that her blush from before had returned to its full potential.

"Alright," she responded casually, making an effort to sound slightly impartial. "I trust we'll have another meeting like this in the near future."

She glanced up at him at the mention of a later conversation, an aura of hopefulness to her tone that he couldn't ignore or deny. He still found himself unable to consider the idea of any interest between them beyond camaraderie, but the idea stuck annoyingly in the back of his mind and occasionally plagued his thoughts with, what he interpreted to be, incorrect interpretations of her voice tenor and body language.

"Of course," he said reassuringly, also attempting to sound slightly detached, despite his enthusiasm at her willingness to spend more time with him. "Until then, Miss Ana."

She nodded slightly, and he turned to make his way towards the particularly uninviting clutches of his hammock and the musical accompaniment of Mr. Gibb's perpetual snoring.


	9. Reunion

A/N: After reading through the last chapter I had written about Elizabeth, I realized that it ended on a note of foreshadowing that suggested she might have come about her escape from the ship to England on her own. Well, as so often happens in the course of my writing, things change and I forget. She will get off the ship, she just won't have to go at it alone, as you will soon discover in this chapter. It will be more cohesive this way, I'm think, as the alternative of her leaving the ship on her own might scatter the characters too far away from one another, creating all kinds of subplots that I'd rather not deal with. What happens in this chapter is inevitable, as far as I'm concerned, so I figured it best to just accomplish it now and get it out of the way.

Anyway, enjoy!

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He was the last person she expected to see, perhaps solely because such an occurrence would only be possible in her wildest dreams.

She had been sitting idly on a rotted barrel, shelling a bottomless weave basket of peas for the ship's cook when she heard a commotion. It was soon accompanied by the harmonious exclaims of the sailors remarking on the unlikely presence of a longboat so far out into the open waters.

It had been a particularly uneventful day, as lifeless as the last and the one before, even if she had been keeping occupied with cabin boy work. This new development was a somewhat welcome event, seeing as how it distinguished this particular day from the others with some long-overdue excitement.

Because she was below the deck of the ship, she apprehensively made her way up the stairs to the top, intending only to get a fair glance at the ship's newest occupant and then resume her duties. She had, at the very least, to get a good look at what was going on, knowing full-well it would be the only source of entertainment for her for the remainder of the journey, provided nothing else of equal or surpassing magnitude came to pass.

She reached the threshold of the staircase and popped her head out of the opening to the deck in a fashion very reminiscent of a rabbit or mole. She observed quietly and curiously as the crowd of men pulled whatever or whoever it was over the side of the ship and onto the deck surface. Because of their size, that was not unnatural for a grown man, she found it impossible to see around them, and decided instead to creep out onto the deck unsuspectingly and pretend to mop or sweep so to get a better look at the center of their huddle.

She had only just stepped out onto the wood paneling when one man exclaimed over others,

"Back up, give him some room!"

The group parted, and she sharply turned her head to take advantage of the opportunity.

What she saw made her almost collapse with disbelieving mirth.

What had floated up beside her England-bound ship in a long-boat was the man she intended to marry, whom she also predicted she may never lay eyes on again. His face was haggard and worn with fatigue, as though he had witnessed centuries of suffering in the short amount of time they had been apart. But he had somehow become more handsome, more desirable than when she had seen him last, and it was all she could do to restrain herself from running to him and smashing her lips against his.

"Will," she murmured helplessly, desiring him more than she ever knew she could.

Her voice would not have been inaudible to his ears in any setting, and having quickly detected her presence, he glanced over at her, their eyes meeting.

She grinned widely at him, her face filling to the brim with an enormous happiness. He smiled at her briefly, his momentary expression sufficient to communicate his elation. His eyes then warned her to stay put, to not acknowledge him in any capacity for the time being. She knew this already, but nodded obediently and turned to continue feigning work.

"_Strange thing to come upon a longboat so far out in the open waters," _commented a tall, sturdy built sailor with voluminous tufts of orange-red hair.

Another, lankier sailor with wisps of blond nodded in agreement, crossing his thin arms over his chest and observing Will with suspicious intrigue.

It was apparent to Elizabeth that Will was making an admirable effort to hide an urgent, nagging concern with a mask of overall composure. She knew the other sailors, who were as good as total strangers to the both of them as she had made no effort to extensively socialize in fear of blowing her cover, would not be able to detect this in him, and for that she could be grateful. Nevertheless, the curiosity, mystique, and foreboding that surrounded the possibilities of what Will might have just escaped from plagued her mind. Rather than feeling entirely enthused that they had found the way to one another after all, she could only worry impatiently as she speculated the extent of Will's trouble.

It was at that moment that Captain Alexander made his appearance on the scene from his stateroom in an unusual state of being without his hat and shawl. His hair was in frizzy disarray, and his hastened movements suggested that he had been disturbed from pressing matters to attend to the newest addition to his crew.

"Alright then," he said very matter-of-factly, nudging the crowd of sailors that had clustered around Will to part for him. "Tell me your name, state your business."

Will inhaled generously through his nose, pausing a moment from answering the question promptly to regard Captain Alexander calmly and discerningly.

"My name is Thomas Moore," he replied as smoothly as though he had been planning the false name and meeting for a considerable amount of time beforehand. "I'm a fisherman. I escaped from an attack on my ship by pirates and I've been stranded out at sea for quite a while now. Through no provocation of my own, your sailors consented to helping me. I cannot be more grateful for your kindness."

The Captain paused, eyeing him dubiously with a furrowed brow. It was clear that Will's seemingly sincere gratitude was unexpected, that he had intended for the lost sailor to really be an agent of ill-intent and for such a fact to be inarguably apparent. His slight aggression now seemed unwarranted.

"My men know the importance of common courtesy," Alexander responded simply, placing his hands on his hips. "And now, if it isn't too much trouble, I'd like to have a meeting with you in my office, Mr. Moore."

"Shall the man have something to eat, first?" Elizabeth spoke up in her best young boy impression, parting the crowd to make her presence known.

Captain Alexander narrowed his eyes warningly at her, his jaws becoming more tightly clenched. She did her best to ignore him and not think of the very heated, paternal lecture that would inevitably to follow.

"Yeah, Cap'n," another sailor agreed. "The gent probably hasn't eaten in days."

"No," Will interjected unexpectedly. "It is far more pertinent that I talk with the Captain."

She was a bit taken back at first, unable to rationalize her fiancee's ability to shy away from being with her for the first time in months. She assured herself, however, that his choice to do so was legitimate and that it was vital she trust his wisdom.

Captain Alexander, on the other hand, seemed especially pleased that the younger man had seen reason and chosen the Captain's will over a personal need for comfort.

"Excellent," the Captain exclaimed enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. "Shall we proceed to my office?"

He then turned swiftly, striding to his office with, what Elizabeth felt, was an overt display of self-confidence, no doubt contrived for the sake of seeming orderly and in control. Will followed compliantly, his mood maintaining the same indifference and impartiality it had when he first arrived on board. She was fully aware that this was a mere façade for something more nerve wracking, something that he would confide only in her, and she could only hope his conversation with the Captain would be brief.

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"So, you haven't told him?"

The evening found Will and Elizabeth alone, below deck in the ship's miniscule excuse for a dining hall and kitchen. She had assured the ship's cook that she could find sustenance enough for the sailor on her own, and that he could feel confident retiring to bed. In a seemingly comedic mockery of a future domestic life for the couple, Will sat at a nearby table nursing a mug, while Elizabeth put into practice the knowledge she had gained while masquerading as cabin boy of reheating an iron kettle of beans.

"No," he responded gravely, staring deeply into the space before him at no specific object. "I felt it was best to keep it mum. There's no point sending the whole crew into a panic."

Elizabeth sawed at a semi-stale loaf of dark, dense bread with a serrated blade as though she were preparing fire wood from a small tree trunk.

"But Will," she began, grunting slightly from the effort of cutting. "A kraken sounds like the sort of thing one would want to prepare for. Do we not owe that to our Captain, as dense as he may be?"

He chuckled heartily, exchanging grins with her that succeeded in making her heart jump in her chest.

"I don't know that it would make that much of a difference, Elizabeth," he said frankly, restoring seriousness. "There isn't much one can do when faced with a kraken. I've seen the aftermath of its force, and I've explained that if it doesn't get kill you-"

"Davy Jones will." She concluded, bringing over a steaming bowl with a plate of the sliced, much strived for dark bread.

Will nodded, his attention now focused on the food before him. He seemed desperate to be hungry, yet Elizabeth knew his fear of the beast that pursued him might be enough to steal his appetite.

"You've said yourself there's no promise it will find us," she mentioned as she sat down across from him, her voice ripe with hopefulness.

"There's no promise it won't either," he replied, swirling the glutinous mass of beans around with the edge of his spoon.

She sighed, trying not to focus on his eating habits, as much as she wished he would consent to consuming something. Perhaps her lack of intimidation and understanding was due to the fact that subconsciously, she had a difficult time accepting the idea of the kraken being a real entity. True enough she had seen some of the most fantastical things in her lifetime, starting with forsaken pirates, but it did not change the fact that her factual, religious upbringing forbid her from entirely believing a gigantic cephalopod roamed the ocean and would obey only the word of Davy Jones. Perhaps it was something else that had decimated those ships that Will had seen, and wiped out more than half of the crew. Perhaps it was cyclones that were responsible, and Davy Jones had merely been using the story of the kraken as a means of frightening people into obeying his will. Or perhaps, she was at the end of her rope with the disappointment and frustration of postponing her wedding and was not at all looking for more reasons to delay it further.

"I have to get off this ship," he said suddenly, breaking the prolonged silence between them.

She lifted her chin off the cushion of her palm in surprise.

"What, you mean now?"

"As soon as possible," he answered, rising from the table and leaving his rations completely untouched.

"Will," she protested. "If you aren't safe on a ship of this size, what chance do you think you'd have in a long boat?"

He had begun to collect his things from a corner of the room, of which he didn't have much. He had already slung his belt over his head, and secured his jacket around his shoulders accordingly.

"I don't know how Davy Jones is tracking me," he started. "But I think it has something to do with being in one place for too long. I can't take the chance, and I've already put you in terrible danger."

Elizabeth quickly stood from the table, rushing over to Will as though she would have to chase him down the length of the deck and physically force him from leaving the ship.

"Will," she whimpered pleadingly, placing her hands firmly on his forearms as soon as she came in close proximity to him with the hope of delaying his effort. "I thought I'd _never_ see you again. Now that we've just found one another you expect me to willingly let you leave?"

He paused a moment, gazing down at her despondently. He proceeded to wrap his arms tightly around her torso, pressing her into him firmly. She reciprocated with an even stronger grasp, allowing the skin of her cheek to absorb every sensation of the familiar contours of his chest, her nose to envelop his scent of seawater and musk so that she may never live to forget it.

"I won't leave you," she murmured into him, her mouth partially muffled from the fabric of his clothes. "Even if you leave this ship without me, I will follow you."

She turned her head to directly face his chest, her hand making a fist of his coarse jacket cloth.

"I will follow you to the ends of the earth, if I have to," she whispered to his sternum. "_I will not abandon you." _

He inhaled sharply at the mention of the recognizable phrase, feeling an unnaturally large lump beginning to form in the depths of his throat.

He loved her too much to bring her with him, as much as his selfish impulse campaigned otherwise. He knew she had always deserved a life of privilege and security, and not simply because she had been born into it, but because she was worth it. He had forever told himself he would somehow, someway, at some point in time, provide this caliber of lifestyle for her. Yet, it was beginning to become painstakingly apparent that he was not only incapable of properly caring for her, he was particularly adept at dragging her into increasingly hazardous, complex situations, each one more life-threatening than the next. She deserved better than this, and he was certain that the only way of creating this for her was to remove himself completely from her life, if only for now. He would be content knowing she was safe in England, more so than if she was married to him and living a life of constant instability and precariousness.

However, despite what he seemed to think she deserved, Elizabeth was determined to stand by him. He knew her well enough to know that the only way she would remain on this ship was if he did too. It made him begin to question the assumed link between what he felt she _deserved_ and what she truly _wanted._ Was it all possible that Elizabeth longed for a miserable life with him? Was it valid to think that she didn't see this existence as miserable at all, but instead a refreshing change from her upbringing? He had always known she desired more out of life, but he had always found the need for life like his as inconceivable.

"If this is truly what you want," he said softly, speaking down to her. "Then I will no longer defy you. I can only hope that you see what I've done as effort to keep you safe, and not to keep myself from you."

She looked up at him, her eyes beginning to noticeably well up with repressed tears, her face growing hot and flushed.

"I don't want to be safe," she said flatly, her voice quivering. "I want to be with you."

Before he could say another word, she crushed her mouth against his with every ounce of desperation in her body. Her hands explored the oily strands of his hair and sloping contours of his scalp feverishly, while her tongue lashed out for his and her lips made every attempt to completely devour him. At this moment, she wanted him in every possible context of the word, and he found himself mirroring these emotions. They were not yet properly married, but this was a time in which neither one could assure the other of being alive tomorrow, and perhaps, he thought, taking advantage of the present opportunity to possess one another would not be in vain.

It was at the height of this display of passion in which a large, resonating crash against the side of the ship forcibly interrupted them, causing them both to lose stable footing and collide with the nearest wall. Elizabeth, who had fallen against Will, whispered uneasily,

"_It's not…it can't be…_"

Will knew very well what it was, and began to rapidly lose faith in the belief that he may live to see another dawn.

"_I've doomed us all…" _


	10. Just a Rumor, Nothing More

A/N- I want to apologize for the long hiatus between updates. I really, really wanted to continue this story but I was faced with real life updates and severe writer's block. I know, I know, lame excuse after lame excuse, but it's true. So, I decided to go ahead and try to finish this chapter I started, like, four or five months ago, not knowing where the hell I was going with it. Needless to say, I found a specific direction and now I have a lot of material for the next few chapters (which should be up soon).

I'm a bit worried I might be rushing into things too soon, but on the whole, I think this chapter sets up appropriately for what is about to transpire. You'll see what I'm talking about.

Oh, and in regard to historical accuracy, I compare something to _glass paper _later in the chapter. You guys might already know about this, but please, humor me. I originally wanted to mention _sandpaper _but then I thought, did sandpaper even exist in the 17th-18th century? Or earlier? So, with a quick look into Wikipedia, I found out that sand paper, technically, did exist before the 19th century, but it was often used as a knock-off of the widely used, expensive, glass paper. Charlatans would often sell sandpaper at the same price as glass paper, and people were always warned to make absolute sure what they were buying was authentic.

Somewhere in the early-to-mid 19th century, however, sandpaper gained more popularity and was sold for being what it was. Now, of course, we often don't use anything but sandpaper. Actually, I'm sure some folks still use glass paper for certain things, but I honestly had never heard about it until I did my research. I would be very surprised to learn, however, that no one uses it at all anymore.

So that's my history lesson. Oh, but wait, there's a bit more.

Despite the fact that I've been referring to Anamaria's ethnic origin as "Dominican", I'm fairly certain from quick, Wikipedia research that the Dominican Republic did not exist at the time. It was discovered and claimed for Spain by Chris Columbus in 1492 (was there any other year?) and at the time, _I believe, _was just the island of Hispaniola (which is currently occupied by Haiti). Columbus founded a settlement called Santo Domingo, but that's really as close as one gets to the name I've been using to describe Anamaria. It didn't start to earn its independence until 1821, and I say "start", because it seems like it was taken over a few times after the first victory by Haiti, then Spain, then American occupation. I'm not sure when it officially became the Dominican Republic, but it was probably sometime after that. (Keep in mind this is a rough re-hash of what I quickly skimmed. I'm probably getting some of this wrong, feel free to correct.)

However, there _was_ an island (still is) called Dominica in the Lesser Antilles that was mostly settled and run by African Americans during this time period. It would make sense that Anamaria would originate from there, so if you want, you can pretend that's what I've been talking about this whole time. For the record though, I really just wanted to give some insight into why Anamaria looks/talks the way she does and thought it would be cool just to describe her as the same ethnicity as Zoe Saldaña. And, I suppose, people from Dominica would still be described as Dominican, right?

At any rate, I hope you enjoy this chapter and not think too hard about historical inaccuracies. No one watches TV or texts, so I think I'm still doing pretty well in terms of that.

Also, (last thing) for those of you interested in what's going on with Will and Elizabeth, there will be an update in the next chapter. Hopefully, that will be up shortly after this one. We'll see.

* * *

As days passed and began to turn into weeks, she found herself adapting new past times and mannerisms, replacing those of old.

For instance, she found she had lost interest entirely in swabbing the deck. For so long it had seemed to be the only preoccupation physically taxing enough to keep her from matters that she would have rather not think about too extensively. It also kept her, most of the time, from being too close to Jack to unwittingly fall into his magnetic pull. He had been known, however, to seek her out and request her presence regardless, as he had done the one memorable night a few weeks prior.

Instead, she now found she preferred occupying herself with anything that former Commodore may have needed assistance with; an experienced privateer's guidance, they liked to call it. This was, of course, a complete farce used by both of them as an excuse to spend more time together, as over the course of the few weeks following their midnight conversation they had constructed a notably pleasing, reasonably close friendship. It was the sort of companionship that left the two occupants unable to be apart from one another very long, as they began to realize that time spent without the wittiness and charm of the other was unbearably dull.

Another former hobby that she had been neglecting with relish was the occasional evening visit to the Captain's quarters for a few swigs of rum, a couple of laughs, and sometimes, a few carnal activities with Jack after she had been properly soused. This had been replaced with routine meetings out on the deck with James, which surprisingly involved considerably less alcohol, if any at all. They had found that rum was not pertinent at all for the both of them to have a delightful chat, and this was a change that Anamaria found particularly refreshing.

Over the course of a few weeks worth of daily heart-to-hearts, both James and Anamaria had found themselves confiding more so in one another than they had with anyone before. He told her the story of his fairly wealthy upbringing in England, how his father had been an Admiral and made a habit of reminding his son as he grew that he, too, would train to be an honorable naval officer. She told him the strikingly contrasting story of her parents, how her mother had been a Dominican prostitute when she fell in love with her father, an African slave of a nearby plantation owner. Her birth, of course, had ruined her mother's career, and not long after her father fell ill and died of a sickness. Those events, she explained, never broke her mother's spirit, and she raised her daughter to the best of her ability, inspiring her to adapt the same unbreakable fortitude.

They exchanged their own worst horror story from their copious amounts of time spent on the sea, they told one another little anecdotes from their upbringing, they compared and contrasted the reasons why the ocean was so magnificent, one would indulge the other in their own personal complexes and issues while the other added helpful advice and feedback, and they had even, with plenty of nervous chuckles, told one another the mortifying accounts of their own first sexual encounter.

It was amazing to her that she was able to invest so much trust in one person in such a short period of time. Perhaps it was her line of work that was the cause of never before meeting someone that she could confide in without hesitation, someone that she felt entirely relaxed to be with. It was almost like talking to a reflection, despite the fact she and James had the most contrasting of personalities. Even this blatant difference didn't deter them. It seemed that they played off one another's quirks in a very complimentary way. If asked, neither one would be capable of forming a justifiable argument for their sudden, unforeseen companionship; they just _were_, she and him.

For the longest time, she had felt perfectly content with the state of their relationship. They were _friends_, after all. Not friends for the sake of any hidden, selfish agendas, but for the mere purpose that they enjoyed one another's company. Now that she knew what true friendship meant, she had begun to realize that James was her first. She would have never wanted to disrupt the purity of that, for any reason. After all, she'd had enough of every other kind of relationship to last her a lifetime. It was indescribably refreshing to feel somewhat _normal_, for once, as though she might have just always been an ordinary female leading a regular life with the normal, expected relationships. She often coveted this life, wondering what good pirating had ever done her in the first place.

But despite her best efforts, her mind would sometimes go astray. She'd begun to find that no matter how much she suppressed these thoughts, they continued to linger and grow. She would sometimes wonder what he was thinking when she would catch him staring at her and he would quickly look away, back to the work of sweeping the deck with cheeks a bright red cherry. She knew his face had to have been this color from manual labor in the searing hot sun, and he had most likely been caught up in a mental reverie and not realized his line of sight was vaguely in her direction. Nevertheless, the she failed to fully withdraw from any _what ifs' _or _maybe's. _

There had been times when they were working side-by-side, laughing, joking and hardly getting any part of the task at hand finished. On more than a couple of occasions, his arm had brushed up against hers, sometimes remaining there for a significant amount of time while she felt the slight jolt of electricity from the texture of his skin through the cotton of her clothes. She made her best efforts to forget about it, to brush the whole thing away even while it was in progress. She knew it wouldn't evolve into anything else even if she had wanted it to. After all, one could take the man from the title of _Commodore _of the British Royal Navy, but it was nigh impossible to completely take the title out of the man.

Being a Commodore that had once sought out Jack Sparrow and having grown with a father that encouraged such aspirations, he had to have been instilled with a firm hatred of privateers, female and male. It had been a stretch of his personal ethics to even claim himself as one, and that was without accepting one as a true, close friend. The idea alone of him feeling anything more for her than respectful companionship was a far-fetched fantasy, and she was sure it would remain that way forever.

This somewhat disheartening reality didn't phase her as much when she was alone, lost in solitary thought. It was easier to accept logic when distractions weren't present, after all. But a returning, hollow sensation of deep loss plagued her whenever she stole a lingering gaze at his comfortably familiar, yet ever deepening cerulean eyes. They glittered with the same sincerity that she had first noticed the evening she had hauled him from sludge, and resonated with a warm, enveloping kindness that she was so unaccustomed to, having become used to the glacial emptiness of most of her fellow colleagues. There was a man of honor, decency, and respectfulness that dwelled within those indigo pools, and however cynical or bitter James Norrington made himself out to be, that same man had no restraint from occasionally showing his face, reminding her that he was, in fact, a _good, trustworthy _person. He would never give her reason to question this fact, and this is what made her begin to long for him.

It was the physical attraction that followed this discovery. She would take extra care to observe him on the afternoons when he chose not to wear any clothing on his upper body. Some days would be hot and overcast enough to safely go without shirts, and it was on these occasions that she attempted to be subtle and inconspicuous in her efforts to study the rhythmic gyrations of the muscle beneath his increasingly tan skin. She then began to take notice of the wavy strands of mahogany that would cascade down his shoulders and hang limply in front of his resolute face as he worked diligently on whatever task was at hand. She wondered what it might feel like to run her fingertips over his sunken, bristled cheeks and pronounced jaw line, tracing the intricate contours and curves of his nose, eyelids, and the vulnerable flesh of his lips, as though she were recreating his image on canvas.

The fantasies would go no farther than that, however, before she reminded herself the concept was hopeless. He would never love a pirate, and she would never allow unwarranted lust to destroy the most pure friendship she had ever known. This ridiculousness was just a phase, she assured herself, and she would eventually see reason enough to overcome it. It would only take time to cure the obsession, and in the process, she would have to be sure to keep the momentary interest from becoming apparent to the other party.

* * *

He had been wondering what had kept her from seeking him out for so long.

He truly enjoyed having Anamaria on board. She was an excellent crewman and captain, when she wasn't testing her luck in hurricanes, and provided for him the sort of company that lacked when in the midst of the sea and not at port. He had a deep-seated respect and admiration for her, but he wouldn't allow this to keep himself from indulging in her undeniably alluring physical appearance. Though it was true it often took a few swigs from the bottle to get her in a willing state to be intimate with him, he still supposed the attraction was mutual. But the thing Jack Sparrow loved most about his nights spent with Anamaria were that they had no detrimental effect on their otherwise platonic, _professional _relationship. Of course, every now and then she would get put out with him in the same way a wife might with her husband, but such feelings seemed to dissipate within a night's rest and the two would be side-by-side once more, navigating the high seas as an exceptionally cohesive partnership.

Lately, however, she had been uncharacteristically aloof. What was most alarming to him was that her standoffishness was not caused by any blatant offense at something he had said or done. In fact, whenever he had made attempts to speak with her she seemed to be in a state of uncharacteristic giddiness. She had become thoroughly impartial towards his invitations to spend another evening with him in the captain's quarters, rather than being passionately adamant against it or bashfully agreeing to accompany him. Something had changed, and for the longest time he couldn't determine what it was that had affected Anamaria's mood so drastically.

It wasn't one event that made the arrangement apparent to him. It was a series of occurrences and mutters that made him put two and two together. He knew that Anamaria had seen fit to take the former Commodore under her wing and train him in the ways of the privateer. This did not set off any mental alarms for him as he was already aware of her tendency to want to educate and train others. It was when he had overheard Ragetti, Pintel, and Mr. Gibbs exchange a few words about the matter over pipes and rum after dinner one evening that his suspicions were aroused.

"_Seems that former Commodore of ours has his hands full,"_ mentioned Pintel with an aura of suggestiveness to his tone. _"If you get me, gents." _

It was this sentence that first peaked Jack's interest as he strolled by the group, intrigued enough to take a moment and hear the rest of the exchange.

Ragetti then giggled in a fashion that was eerily similar to a hyena. "_He should consider himself lucky," _he added in between hiccupping chuckles. "_Not every man can say he's been touched by Anamaria in a way that wasn't physically harmful." _

"_Now, now, lads," _Mr. Gibbs interjected in the midst of their laughter. _"We'd do well not to assume anythin'. Anamaria and the Commodore are just entitled as any of us to have companionship. If yeh' ask me that's all there is to it. I can't imagine the Commodore bein' of any appeal to her anyway." _

"_Yer' absolutely sure of that?" _Pintel challenged. _"After all, they've been meetin' to, as they say, 'talk' every night." _

"_Well what the bloody hell do we three do every evening? What do you call this we're doin' right now?" _Mr. Gibbs' forehead began to become more furrowed and red with every syllable.

Jack found Mr. Gibbs' efforts to preserve Anamaria's dignity endearing. It had taken him a while to even decide she was worthy enough to crew the ship, so the fact that he had now become so eager to defend a respect that he clearly felt she deserved was exceptional.

Nevertheless, the words of Pintel and Ragetti had made Jack particularly curious. Mr. Gibbs may have been totally correct about the nature of Anamaria's relationship with the former Commodore. However, it _was_ true that she and he were now affiliated with one another and were willingly spending a lot of time in one another's company. Even if no physical dynamic existed at this point, the environment for it to form and begin to fester was present.

It wasn't that he was jealous. Jack Sparrow didn't get jealous. It simply was out of the question. He had many women that he maintained all varieties of relationship with, and not one of them did he expect total, unwavering monotony from. The case was no different for Anamaria, and if she found herself able to swear him off completely on her own, so much the better for her. The issue lay in the situation itself. He excused himself by saying that he was worried she was setting herself up to be heartbroken, and was gradually losing the respect of her fellow crewmates. But perhaps most importantly, and Jack would never have admitted it out loud, the fact that it was the _Commodore_ of all people that was capable of stealing her attention from him was preposterous and insulting, as if to suggest that James Norrington might be a better choice of lover than he. He had to make her reconsider.

* * *

"A governor's daughter, eh?"

James glanced up from his task of checking the rigging. He stared suspiciously at Anamaria, who stood before him, arms crossed, a tell-tale smirk across her face.

He sighed in realization, momentarily shrugging his arms away from the task at hand.

"Had a little chat with Jack, have we?"

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, mirroring her mocking grin.

"_James," _she began, releasing her arms and approaching him with a look of awe. "Why didn't you tell me you were engaged to _Elizabeth Swann_?"

He began to pretend he had returned to his former assignment, avoiding eye contact with her at all costs.

"I don't know. I suppose I didn't think it'd matter…"

"How could it _not_?" she retaliated, her voice brimming with bemusement. "Somehow I don't think that was your reasoning…"

He abandoned his attempt to seem occupied in favor of glancing back over at her, the glare of the low sunlight ruining his efforts to create a sarcastic expression.

"Well, now, don't tell me you're jealous. I was only trying to spare your feelings-"

He was cut off when she began playfully swatting at him with the sleeves of her shirt.

"Oh get over yer'self," she sighed, giving him a final shove. He chuckled under his breath as she sauntered away from him and leaned her elbows against the wood railing, facing the bright violet of the sunset.

He stared at her for a moment, expectantly, while she ignored him completely and chewed on her nails. After a second or two of silence, he got impatient enough to tie off the rope and make his way over to her.

"What else did Jack share with you?" he queried, coming to stand beside her, resting his hands on the wood beside her right elbow.

She exhaled deeply, seeming to have lost her good-humored nature from before.

" 'Seems to think people are talkin'…"

He transferred his gaze over to her.

"What of?"

She shifted uncomfortably, opening her mouth as if in attempt to force the words. Faltering, she instead chose to laugh softly, shaking her head.

"Well, come on then," he prodded with a grin, slightly leaning into her as if it would somehow induce speech.

"It's foolish," she warned. "Very foolish."

"That's not too surprising," he confessed with a bemused smirk. "It _was _Jack Sparrow you were talking to, after all."

She beamed reluctantly, being none too subtle about her efforts to repress a giggle. He writhed a bit in his current position, eager to find out what it was that had upset her.

Eventually, she recovered enough to let out one last cathartic exhale and force the reluctant truth.

"The crew seems to have found me to be a riveting topic for gossip…well, not _just _me…"

She then turned to look at him, her lower lip tucked behind her upper teeth.

"Us, as matter of fact."

It took him a moment to fully realize the implications of what she was saying. When he finally accepted the uncomfortable news for everything that it was, he found himself to be at a complete loss for words.

"_Oh." _

She simply nodded an affirmation and buried her head in her folded arms.

He scoffed sardonically, and gingerly placed an unsure hand on her shoulder, trying his hardest to make the gesture seem as platonic as humanly possible. Nevertheless, he still felt a tiny jolt course through him upon making contact. Even worse, he couldn't help but feel a little encouraged from the fact that she didn't so much as flinch.

"You shouldn't listen to them, you know," he said finally.

She made a low grumbling sound in her throat.

"I know."

"And you most certainly shouldn't listen to Jack. You and I both know nothing comes out of his mouth that won't benefit him in some way."

She slowly peaked out from behind her crossed forearms.

"It's the principle of the thing," she insisted. "It's hard enough to get any respect on this ship, being a _woman, _but near impossible when I'm made out to be some kind of harlot."

He wrinkled his nose a bit, a little perplexed by her reasoning.

"Well, I'd hardly consider being with one man the behavior of a _harlot."_

She released herself from the confinement of her arms and turned over on the railing, allowing her back to provide the support of her slouch.

"It's the _principle _of the thing," she reiterated half-heartedly.

He grunted inaudibly and returned to mindlessly finish his former job with the rigging. A part of him wanted to so badly to mention her relationship with Jack, and how the possibility of crew gossip never deterred her from becoming ritualistically involved with him. On the whole though, he was glad he didn't allow his jealousy to get the better of him. Now probably wasn't the time to start a squabble.

He didn't notice her lean to the right slightly, attempting to get a glimpse of his obscured expression. He also wasn't able to see her look of concern for his disposition.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He momentarily halted his unnecessarily aggressive attempts to finish the work, but didn't bother to turn around and face her.

"What? Oh, _nothing. Nothing's _the matter."

She licked her lips.

"I don't believe you."

Sighing loudly, he swiveled around to face her, one hand still clutched to the rope that he had been tending to.

"Let's just say, for instance," he began reluctantly. "That the crew found out about…well, _you know…_your other _situation." _

She cocked her head to the side, pursing her lips slightly.

"Would you be as humiliated as you are now?"

Her eyes narrowed subtly, and he couldn't tell if it was out of offense or disbelief that he hadn't already guessed the answer.

"_Of course,_" she answered incredulously. "A thousand times more so."

He simply nodded, once more turning back to the job before him in hopes of ending the conversation. Unfortunately, Anamaria wasn't satisfied with the current outcome.

"Why do you ask?"

He didn't answer her at first. Practically, he knew pretending not to have heard her wouldn't work in a million years, but he was desperate to not face humiliation.

"Are you going to tell me why you asked me that bizarre, misplaced question or shall I guess?"

"_Ana…_" he pleaded, attempting to flip the situation so that she was made to look like the irrational one.

He felt her hand suddenly come to rest on his forearm, the skin of which was currently bare due to the fact that he had abandoned his shirt for the evening work. The calluses on her finger tips and palm felt like an oddly delicious and warm kind of glass paper; one that he wouldn't object to having felt on another areas of his flesh.

He shook away the thought and turned to face her, soon realizing that she stood a mere twelve to ten inches from him. He could easily see the determination for truth dancing in her dark brown eyes.

They stood like this for a moment or two in silence, her hand lingering on his arm, her lower jaw jutting out slightly in an attempt to seem resilient, his eyes peering into hers inquisitively.

Eventually, her lips began to part and her entire demeanor started to soften.

"If you have something to say…" she began softly, her voice a near whisper.

Why, all of a sudden, the distance between them began to close, was beyond him. He felt almost as if his limbs had grown their own, respective consciousnesses as they began drift towards her. What was about to transpire was not something he objected to in principle. In fact, he yearned more and more desperately for it with each passing day, with every moment spent with her. But he knew, deep down, they could never be. This wouldn't work. She loved him only as a friend and he wasn't meant to be a pirate, much less fall in love with one.

What he genuinely wanted was something much more than friendship, much more than a strictly carnal arrangement. But this dream was unreasonable because it did not fit cohesively with either of their aspirations and goals. If he were to go and do something foolish, like take her into his arms and tell her he was falling in love with her, all hope for honor for he and Anamaria would be banished completely. She could never be a part of his plan to return to Port Royal admirably and he could never restore her credibility as an honorable, highly respected pirate captain. Surely, they both knew this.

But the knowledge of reality provided no discouragement. He was soon wrapping his arm around her waist, bringing her in close to his chest. Her hand that had formerly rested on his forearm now began to slide up to his shoulder, the other coming to land on his pectoral. Their movements were a bit clumsy, unsure, with the ever-present, but mostly ineffective knowledge that what they were about to do was _wrong _and _unwise._

"I-I…" he mumbled almost inaudibly, the syllables dropping out of his mouth as gracefully as falling bricks.

She seemed to have abruptly come to a full awareness of her actions, as her dreamy gaze suddenly transformed into one of disbelief. She hastily wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself into him with more force then he felt was warranted. She then pulled away and gave him a very masculine slap on the back, momentarily knocking the wind out of his lungs.

"You're a good friend, James," She beamed unconvincingly. "I have no idea where I'd be without you."

With that, she gave him a good-humored punch on the arm, causing him to recoil and cradle the newly inflicted bruise with his palm, and furtively walked off, clearly feigning a purposeful sense of direction.

The whirlwind of events had successfully caught him off guard, and he allowed his eyes to aimlessly search around the vicinity for some kind of insight into her choice of behavior.

He discovered it in the form of Ragetti, Pintel, and Marty standing a few feet away, swabbing the higher deck. When his gaze found them, they quickly jumped into a frantic, adamant mode of work from the former behavior of standing stone still and witnessing the scene before them.

Exhaling through his nose, he set off in the direction of wind that smelled most like rum and musk.


	11. The Kraken

A/N: This is a rather short chapter. I intended on writing a bit more, actually, but I felt like where I left off was a good stopping point and it actually sets up for a scenario that I did not intend on using. I'm still a little hesitant as to whether or not I'll try it out. We'll see.

But I digress.

This is another Will/Elizabeth and, as you'll soon find out, Bootstrap Bill/Davy Jones chapter (though, there isn't anything romantic about the last two I mentioned, lol). It's a rehash of a familiar Dead Man's Chest scene but, of course, adapted to fit this version of things. Oh, and I wanted to include the link to a trailer for this story that I've slapped together (.com/watch?v=NuzJKtsSgds). Feel free to check it out and leave some feedback.

I'd also love some feedback on this story. Please tell me how it's going and if you have any suggestions/critiques. Speaking of which, Katilia, a wonderful reviewer, mentioned that in some of my chapters, it was difficult to tell who was talking to whom, who I was referring to, etc. I can see where that confusion originates from and I made a more concentrated effort in this installment to make that more clear.

Okay, enough of my rambling. Enjoy!

* * *

He was grudgingly passive while the clammy hands took hold of his shoulders.

He forced himself to be calm as they gained on the vulnerable ship, oblivious to its imminent doom.

He wouldn't allow even one syllable to escape his lips as his captain gazed vindictively in the distance, his tentacles writhing in fury.

He attempted to stare at the ground in hopes of giving the impression that nothing could phase him. He had to be strictly detached and uncaring.

'_Bloody hell, bootstrap,_' a familiar, mental voice reprimanded. _'You had no problem leaving the boy as a babe for your own selfish needs. Why now does your heart break for him? Why now do you care if lives or dies? Where is the sense or logic in that?'_

Breaking his reverie was the sharp, hollow clasp of Davy Jones' faded, crimson claw. It latched on to his neck, piercing what remained of his human skin.

"_You will watch this," _he hissed, humid breath clouding his ear.

_Apathy, unfeeling. Don't let this get the better of you, Bill._

"_Let no joyful voice be heard!" _

_It matters not. William hates you. He's always hated you. He's better off in a place without you. _

"_Let no man look up at the sky with hope!" _

_You were never there for him. You never saw him grow to be a man. You never saw him become the honest, selfless person he is today. He's better than you. He deserves better. _

"_And let this day be cursed…"_

_You'll never be the father William deserved. You chose your own path that strayed from him and only benefited you, and you're now getting what has been coming to you this entire time. You'll watch the man you should have been there for die, undeservingly, for you._

"_By we who ready to wake…"_

_And you will exist for the rest of eternity knowing it's your fault. You killed William, bootstrap. _

"_The kraken!" _

"_Noooooo!"_

He couldn't let it lie dormant any more. The overpowering love for his son -the son he knew full well he should have been there for, the son that upon meeting, he knew was worth sacrificing his whole, pointless career on the sea for- overcame him, and the pressure from years of repressing this truth finally released from him.

He loved Will with every fiber of his being. He was proud of everything Will had grown to be. He hated himself for never realizing his son's true worth, and for not being a part of William's life since the beginning. A part of him believed that William became who he was _because_ his father was absent. But another part of him knew that he had robbed him of any true closure, of any confirmation that his father loved him.

And he would never get the chance to tell him. He would never be able to tell his own son how pleased he was with him, how violently and sincerely he loved him, how sorry he was that they had just now met, that he was never there for William when he should have been.

He didn't want to watch. He tried to look away, tried to once more hide the truth from his own eyes. But his fellow crew members, obediently following Davy Jones' will, wouldn't allow it. They held his head in place, secured his body against theirs to insure that he would make no effort to escape.

_You deserve this, Bill. You're killing your son. Was it all worth it?_

_

* * *

  
_

He stood from the spot where they had fallen and ran frantically to the steps leading up to the deck.

Elizabeth followed close behind, too overwhelmed with the current turn of events to form a coherent sentence, much less a train of thought.

An unnerving scene of frightened ambiguity met them when they reached the landing of the deck. Their fellow sailors lingered in a surprised stupor, exchanging worried glances and precariously wandering about, aimlessly, for an answer.

"_Mother Carrie's chickens!"_ one voice exclaimed, shattering the thick wall of silent tension. _"What happened?"_

"_Must've hit a reef," _speculated another.

Captain Whitting, on the other hand, did not seem as apt to stand idle and guess what had afflicted the ship. Rather, he shot out of his state room faster than a bullet from the gun barrel, frenetically, yet assertively, shouting commands to his crew.

"_Free the rudder!" _he commanded, sending the formerly frozen groups of men scattering. _"Hard to port, then to starboard!" _

Elizabeth took a deathly tight grip of Will's arm, nearly cutting off his circulation.

"Will, what should we do?"

Her voice was desperate, yet only slightly suggestive of fright. She did not seem to be in a state of hopelessness or resignation, that much Will could be thankful for. As long as they were both willing participants in the struggle to survive the next hour or so, he could probably find a way to escape.

The fact of the matter was he _had _to. Failure wasn't an option, not for him, Elizabeth, nor his father. The problem was, however, he had no inkling of a feasible strategy.

He turned back to Elizabeth and briefly caressed the base of her skull.

"Trust me," he answered simply. "And follow my lead."

A minute had not transpired following Will's words when an immense cephalopod tentacle rose from the waves, towering much higher than their –now seemingly very miniscule- merchant vessel. It poised briefly above the water like a cobra before striking the ship suddenly and grasping one of the sailors in a tight, suffocating bind. With a horrifying shriek of terror, the man was pulled from the deck and yanked below the depths in one swift, fluid movement.

As if to cue everyone into action from the crippling scene that just took place, one elder sailor screamed,

"_Kraken!" _

The general maniacal response on the part of the crew proved the effectiveness of his announcement. The men scrambled like roaches from a light source, some clearly not sure what their plan for survival would be. Others grabbed spears and other sharp weapons, hoping that stabbing the appendages would be enough to take the creature down.

As this occurred, Will took hold of Elizabeth's wrist and lead her to the rigging, which he proceeded to climb.

"The rigging, Will?" Elizabeth shouted up at him, unconvinced.

"Trust me!" he threw back at her, knowing full-well there would be no time for an explanation.

Elizabeth attempted to avert her eyes from the deck as they scaled the mainmast. Men, who had been futilely hacking and stabbing away at the flailing tentacles of the leviathan, were being torn and jerked from the deck into the water in a similar fashion as the first victim.

Eventually, she and Will reached opposite sides of the main lower topsail, despite her seemingly ineffective struggle to swing from rope-to-rope as gracefully as her fiancée. She watched Will slash at a stray tentacle that had come towards him as she balanced precariously on the slick surface of the wood.

One sailor, who flew beside her in the death-grip of the kraken, held out his hands to her, desperately.

"Please, save me, boy!" he shrieked at her, reaching for her hand. "Good boy, save me!"

She attempted to lean towards him, holding on to the mast with one hand and extending her other to his.

"Elizabeth, no!" Will suddenly yelled, causing her to look away from the man towards him. In that split second, the sailor was ripped away into the depths, his final cry echoing over the waves.

Unable to suppress it, Elizabeth allowed herself to weep and slightly collapse against the mast.

"Will, I can't let them die!" she pleaded.

"You _have _to!" he answered back with a tone of finality.

Gritting her teeth, she jumped from the lower topsail and swung quickly between the ropes to the surface of the deck.

"Elizabeth, what-" Will had begun to shout, being cut off by her anticipating response.

"I have to save Captain Whitting," she explained. "I owe him that!"

Will attempted to call after her with warnings and pleas not to carry out her plan, but she disregarded him completely and continued down the length of the deck, dodging and sliding in between flying tentacles.

Will began to descend from the mast, determined to go after and intercept her before she could get too far away.

It was at that moment, however, that the beast below them decided to cut the struggle short and make quick work of the vessel. One colossal, transcending tentacle, far superior to the others that had appeared so far, gradually rose from the ocean, bringing a shower of sea water onto the deck. It continued to grow until it seemed to make contact with the robin egg's blue sky, blocking out the glare of the sun completely.

The shadow descended over the ship like an eclipse, robbing breath, as well as motion, and momentarily allowing the crew a pseudo moment of peace. It was not to last, however, as the gigantic tentacle then threw itself hard against the vessel, cracking the deck in half and separating Elizabeth's side from Will's.

Will didn't allow the feeling of his stomach flip-flopping to prevent him from continuing to go after Elizabeth. He intended to leap across the new divide between the deck, but more and more of the massive arms began to leap out of the water and wrap themselves around the body of the ship, crushing it with the same ease as a peach in a clenched fist.

He soon came upon the sickening discovery that the crack between the ship lead to the mouth of the beast, and the deck was being slowly tilted to filter everyone aboard into the open jaws.

His eyes searched franticly around the area for any sign of Elizabeth, hoping against hope that nothing had yet befallen her. He knew then that he had no choice but to attempt to find her or die trying. He wasn't about to imagine, much less experience, a future without her.

Suddenly, the now-detached mast swung towards him, hitting him squarely in the chest and throwing him violently off the deck and into the sea. The air was immediately knocked out of his lungs as he felt himself falling, and then hitting the surface of the waves hard with a loud splash.

Though his hard plummet into the water caused him to sink, and the absence of oxygen was already challenging his ability to move, he utilized some nameless force within him to propel his arms and legs forward towards the blurry light of the sun.

When his face emerged from the briny water, he allowed himself a generous inhale of air and continued to pant and refill his lungs as he momentarily waded, still searching for Elizabeth. Having received enough oxygen to compensate for his momentary loss, he proceeded to aimlessly slice through the waves, calling out Elizabeth's name and attempting to create a louder sound than the chaos that ensued not far from where he was.

As the minutes passed, the kraken fully enveloped the ship and eventually brought it down completely below the depths. A few stray splashes from tentacles followed the ship's final disappearance, but the overall area, strewn with random ship debris and possible severed appendages, was completely devoid of human life.

* * *

A/N: OMG cliffhanger!

Elizabeth fans, please don't crucify me. Things are probably not what they seem. winkwinksaynomore ;)


	12. Isla Cruces

A/N: Yaay Chapter Twelve!

I originally intended to go a bit farther with this installment, but I'm not really looking to make massive, tl;dr chapters. I think where I left it, for the time being, is sufficient.

For those of you following this story, I think you for your "patronage" as it were, and I hope to receive your continuing support and feedback. I realize that this is a bit different than what most folks write about and, perhaps, a bit of a risky choice. I understand. If I was going to devote my time to 12+ chapters, I'd want it to be quality material as well. I mean, you _know _you're going to enjoy a story with a familiar, beloved pairing (like Willabeth or Sparrabeth, I suppose) but one with two characters that had nary a word with one another in the movies? I know, it's a risk.

But again, I appreciate those of you who have elected to give it a chance. For those who care to know, I'm not exactly sure when the next chapter will be up. I know for a certainty what I want to do with the story at this point, so it's not really a matter of writer's block. I'm actually going to be out of pocket during Thanksgiving and I will be uber busy leading up to Tuesday, the day I'm going out of town. Hopefully I'll get a chance to bang something out before then, but if not, expect something to be up shortly after December 1st.

This segment of the collective story, the one that spans the time period of Dead Man's Chest, is almost done. _Where Sea Winds Blow_ is more like part 1, and I'm fairly certain I'm going to start another story that begins where this one leaves off, at the beginning of _At World's End._ Not really sure what the title will be yet, but I have a ghost of an idea of where the story will go.

So, there you have it. Without further ado, ladies and gentleman, Chapter 12!

* * *

Jack was standing near the helm –or, swaying, rather- with one hand purposelessly clasping a spoke, and chatting idly with Mr. Gibbs when James found him.

A few moments passed before the two men realized the approach of another. When Mr. Gibbs eventually took notice of him, James was standing not but a couple of feet away. He became particularly unnerved by the sudden presence of the third man.

Jack, on the other hand, continued to babble on with very occasional coherence. James stood in his captain's peripheral, and by all rights, should have been seen, or at the very least, detected by him without provocation. Nevertheless, it required Mr. Gibbs' hand on Jack's shoulder, and a nod in the general direction of their conversation's newest member. When Jack's eyes finally met with James', he jumped suddenly, startling all three of them.

"Mr. Former commodore," Jack greeted, smiling curtly. "I do hope this afternoon finds you well."

"Not as I'd prefer," he answered flatly. "I'd also like a word."

James glanced over at Mr. Gibbs, who in turn began to back away, a hand clutched firmly on his flask.

"Alone, if you please."

Mr. Gibbs seemed all too willing to oblige to his former superior's wishes, despite Jack's refusal to back down.

"No, I wouldn't have it! What can be said to me can be said to the whole crew, isn't that correct, Mr. Gibbs?"

"Then again, Jack," Mr. Gibbs began, continuing to inch away. "Perhaps its best I leave you two at it. There's much left to get done today, after all. Daylight be burning like candle wax…"

Before Jack was able to protest, Mr. Gibbs had scampered off in the opposite direction, leaving him alone with the very sour ex-naval officer. He sighed loudly at this development, sinking a little onto the wheel.

"I have no more patience, Jack," James announced unexpectedly, regaining

his full attention once they were alone. "I sincerely hope that you did not expect me to stand idly by while you defiled a friend's honor."

Jack's knowing smirk grew slowly, and he began to sway with a noticeably more taunting demeanor.

"No, you're right, Jim," he conceded. "I'd have expected more out of you."

James grit his teeth and drew closer, as if to make his point clearer with intimidation.

"I do not intend for this meeting to be a digressive one. I'd like for you to be fully aware that I won't tolerate any more inane gossip spread around this ship."

"Then you might consider not creating anymore," Jack answered simply, motioning to another crewman to man the helm before commencing to saunter off.

James followed him in earnest, shouldering fellow crewmen aside so to keep up with Jack's weave through the crowd.

"I think you and I both are aware of your intents, Sparrow," he pushed. "I won't be taken for a fool."

Jack stopped in his tracks and spun around sharply to face the man that pursued him. His face no longer exuded ridicule, having been replaced with a glare of impatience.

"What _intents, _Mr. Norrington, do you think I might have for speaking poorly of a revered associate such as our dear, Ana?"

James rolled his eyes, impatiently.

"Shall I save us an hour or two and cut to the heart of things?" he offered, to which Jack shrugged in impassive concession. "Ana has neglected to visit your quarters for the past two weeks, and why? Because she has chosen to spend that time with a man whose intentions, for _once, _do not end in robbery or drunken intercourse."

Jack pretended to be distracted with the movement of crewmen around them, though his expression mirrored that of a child who was being confronted for breaking a window.

"You're jealous," James stated triumphantly. "And in a pathetic attempt to re-earn Ana's attention, you've spread around enough slanderous hearsay to disgrace her so that she might think she was only sufficient enough for the likes of you."

Jack's grin gradually returned, as well as his familiar, arrogant swagger of self-contentment.

"On the contrary, Mr. Norrington," he countered. "I'd say _you _were the jealous one. Otherwise, we'd not be having this little chat. You also may find it interesting to note that I said _nothing _to the crew of you and the lady, nor the manner of relationship you maintain. It was, in fact, the crew that spoke to me first."

Visibly taken back, James queried apprehensively, "I beg your pardon?"

Jack smirked out of the corner of his mouth and turned around to resume his aimless strut around the deck, seemingly to keep his conversation partner trailing behind at his heels.

"Sir Norrington, have you ever before been friends with a woman?"

James' inability to answer swiftly allowed Jack to continue uninhibited.

"I thought not. Because if you had, you'd know full well you _can't _be friends with a woman, or rather, not in the same manner that you can with your fellow man."

"Perhaps _you _find yourself unable to form a non-physical bond with the opposite sex," James quipped. "But there are those of us respectful enough-"

Jack glanced back at him momentarily in order to look him in the eyes as he cut him off.

"You really should drop the _gentleman _act, mate. It's very unbecoming."

The two men were fast approaching the captain's state room, and the fact that Jack had begun rummaging around his jacket for the keys seemed to imply that he wished to continue the debate behind closed doors. That, or slam the door in his face and lock it before the discussion could reach a conclusion, James thought.

Surprisingly enough, as soon as Jack had unlocked the door, he held it open and motioned for James to continue before him into the room.

"The fact of the matter is," Jack continued, shutting the door behind him. "Women, delightful creatures they may be, are the most assuming form of human being that walks the blessed earth. You become friendly with one, and her expectations of you will only increase."

Jack began to drift towards his desk and motioned for James to have a seat in the chair across from him. He reluctantly complied, favoring the edge and maintaining a board-stiff posture.

"If you cared to notice anything about her at all, aside from her outward appearance," James began, shifting uncomfortably. "You'd be fully aware of that fact that she is nothing like _most _women."

"Aye, 'tis true enough. But she _is _a woman nonetheless."

Jack began to, distractingly, shuffle through objects on his desk and other encumbered surfaces in office. James made a concentrated effort not to let the other man's movements disrupt him from continuing to defend his side of the situation.

"Your assumption of the relationship is wrong," he said loud enough to overcome the cacophony of Jack's shuffling about. "Things are not so cut-and-dried."

Jack disappeared momentarily into a cabinet, and sounds of a diligent search through clutter soon followed.

"You say that now," his muffled voice called out. "But when you've let this matter grow to its full potential you'll see the merit to my words."

He finally emerged wielding a cloudy bottle of amber rum, and before partaking, slightly shook it at James in an effort to offer him a swig. The gesture was met with a look of disgust, and followed with a simple shrug from Jack before he downed a swig.

"I have a bit of advice for you, dear sir, that I know a wise man such as yourself will consider," Jack began, sliding into the chair behind the desk. He then leaned forward, across the desk surface, to establish better eye contact and give emphasis to his point. "Don't _ever _let a woman trust you to be a perfect gentleman."

James blinked, unimpressed, and gradually exhaled while allowing his temples to fall onto his fingertips.

"And I suppose you'll suggest I should treat them all like trollops, is that _it?" _

"Couldn't hurt," he agreed, leaning back in his chair to take another generous gulp. "If we'd had this discussion much earlier I might have warned you not to fall in love with her, either."

James' head suddenly jumped from its position on his fingers to shoot Jack a look of offended surprise.

"Meaning _what?" _

His captain merely grinned in subtle, sly delight.

"Either way, rightful commodore, you're going to want to forget this childish charade for both your sakes. If you truly cared for her with the ferocity you claim, you wouldn't put in her this kind of compromising position. Eh? Don't you agree?"

Norrington's defensive air was immediately depleted. He couldn't answer Jack's statement with a biting, witty retort because he had none. Grudgingly, he knew would have to accept the fact that Jack was _right. _He was _right. _

But he wasn't about to admit that aloud.

Fortunately, a crew member barging into the room at that moment would protect from having to do so.

"Mr. Sparrow, sir, we've spotted land!" the younger man announced, quickly ducking his head back out and into the fray on the deck.

"Ah, wonderful!" Jack commented, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the lad had left the door open. "That will be our Isla Cruces."

He rose from his seat and approached the coat rack in the corner beside the door. Grabbing his hat, he turned to Norrington who still sat indifferently in the chair across from the desk.

"Are you ready to dig, mate?"

* * *

It had been a numb, emotionless three hours. He had made himself no more than a paperweight as he hid within the jaws of _The Flying Dutchman.  
_

It had taken him, at least, a half-hour following the attack of the kraken to fully realize what had happened to Elizabeth. By that point he had already scaled the side of Davy Jones' ship, not allowing any margin of time to think within the waters themselves. A part of him knew that any lapse of time in which he wasn't struggling to achieve his original goal would increase the chance of doing something rash, something that Elizabeth wouldn't have approved of at all, had she been present to give an opinion.

He had managed to trudge through the last few hours clinging to his plan of action to redeem his father rather than fixating on past events. Elizabeth would have been disappointed to hear he had wept and sulked so much that he forgot his purpose, he was sure of it. She wouldn't have been pleased to hear that he drowned himself rather than pushed onward to the island and the chest. They had accomplished so much. He had made a promise to his father. Ending his life now so to be reunited with her would have made everything they had done so far, including her death, completely in vain.

And it wouldn't have been fair. He lived his life for others more than he did for himself. He could act on selfish impulse after he fulfilled the promises he made.

* * *

"_You're pulling too fast!"_

"_Well you're pulling too slow!" _

James Norrington was under the impression that he had already been sent to hell upon losing all dignity and becoming a pirate deckhand. But as he sat in the small rowboat beside an uncomfortably silent Anamaria, across from the annoyingly loud, squabbling Pintel and Ragetti, and in a position so that he could clearly see Jack at the end of boat, proudly leading his small group with his ever-present unwarranted self-importance, James realized that he was just now staring Satan, himself, dead in the face. He had absolutely no concept of it until now.

That was not to mention the perpetual, blazing heat bearing down on them, or the necessity that he wear his heavy, wool Commodore jacket and waistcoat lest he be roasted alive by the Caribbean sun.

"_I'm saving my strength for when it comes," _Pintel argued. "_And I don't think its Kraken, anyway. I always heard it said Kráken."_

"_What, with a long 'a'?" _Ragetti asked incredulously.

Pintel nodded.

"_No, no, no, no, no, Kráken is how its pronounced in the original Scandinavian, and Kraken's closer to that." _

"_Well, we're not original Scandinavians, are we? Kráken!" _

"_It's a mythological creature, I can calls it what I wants!" _

James found that he was bothered more now by the lack of sense in Ragetti and Pintel's logic than the fact that they were talking at all. He was sorely tempted to speak up in the middle of the foray and ask them, directly, how the pronunciation _Kraken, _was closer to the pronunciation _Kráken, _than the actual pronunciation was to itself.

But a more civilized voice encouraged him to refrain, to at least _pretend _he was better than quarreling aimlessly with a couple of pirates.

He began to let his eyes wander, subconsciously seeking out a kindred spirit that might exchange a knowing, sympathetic glance with him. Surprisingly enough, he found it in Anamaria, who despite having ignored him altogether for the past hour and a half, somehow met his eye roll.

She simply shrugged with a smirk, shaking her head empathetically. He returned the grin, chuckling a bit in his throat before forcing his line of sight to wander off elsewhere.

* * *

He had disembarked and swam as furtively as he possibly could to the nearest shore some time ago. As far as he knew, Davy Jones nor any crew member had caught sight of him.

He had spent the past hour wandering about the island, having already realized that he really had no clue whatsoever as to where the chest might have been. He had been hoping to discover it before any of the _Flying Dutchman's _crew did, but he had never really stopped to consider how he might go about locating it, digging it up, opening it, and stabbing the contents before they crawled up on shore. They weren't far behind, after all.

He supposed he had been so eager to focus on something besides the Kraken or Elizabeth, and the assurance of victory in his latest quest seemed to be the only thing sufficient enough to deter him.

Now, however, he just felt foolish and hopeless.

He trudged over a sand dune with a bit more defiance than before, determined to keep moving regardless of his current state. What other choice did he have, after all? Maintaining a steady pace would also protect his thoughts from straying, or so he hoped.

It was at that moment that nearby movement in the waves caught his eye.

Curiously, he turned his head towards the object in the water, so far away at this point that it resembled only a speck.

Against his better judgment, he began to wade out into the shallows, hoping to get a better view of the object. It was clearly floating towards him, and so it would only be a matter of seconds before he would assuredly discover it was.

As the wind and waves brought it closer, Will began to detect a very human presence. For one, it was moving, and the clear outline of appendages was evident in the searing light of the sun. For another, the sunlight glinted off the object in much the same way it did off of Elizabeth's golden-brown hair. For a moment, he simply assumed that the person in the distance had the same color hair as his deceased fiancée.

The situation began to grow exceedingly more eerie after that.

For one, the woman that owned the glowing, golden hair, was evidently dressed in the exact same colors as Elizabeth the last time Will saw her. She was accompanied on a raft with a middle-aged gentleman, who seemed particularly fatigued and bewildered.

A part of him simply couldn't believe that the approaching pair could possibly be Elizabeth and the man she initially left to rescue.

But another part of him, the one that was filled to the brim with blind optimism and overpowering love, refused to accept that it was anyone else.

* * *

"_Guard the boat, mind the tide, don't touch my dirt." _

Jack eagerly sprinted from tide to beach sand, allowing a less enthusiastic Anamaria to lead, wielding the compass in front.

"You really think it wise to leave the boat out in the open?"

Jack reluctantly stopped and turned towards the direction of Norrington's voice.

"If I were a Captain who was being pursued by the likes of _The Flying Dutchman, _I might make my presence more scarce," James continued sardonically, leaning against the handle of his shovel as though it were a walking stick.

Jack sneered slightly and made a dismissive movement with his hands that looked as though he was swatting at a fly.

"Davy Jones has no rhyme or reason to come Isla Cruces," he explained to the unconvinced man before him. "There'd be no reason to hide like the yellow-bellied officers of the Royal Navy."

"James is right," Anamaria conceded, causing Jack to once more whip around and give her a glare of betrayal. "We should hide the boat. There's no telling who might be following us."

Jack responded with a dramatic eye roll, followed by an unnecessarily loud sigh. He then shuffled over to Ragetti and Pintel as though his boots were made of iron.

"Oy! Carry the boat into the trees, tout de suite!"

As Jack yelled at the pirate duo, James sent Anamaria a smirk of delight at their Captain's display of frustration. She grinned back at him, accompanying it with a soft giggle and a wink.

"Ready to find that chest, mate?" she asked, motioning for him to follow her.

"Not particularly," he responded with a reciprocation of her wink, slinging his shovel over his shoulder and proceeding to follow her over the next couple of sand dunes.

Jack momentarily turned to see his two crew members embarking on the quest without him.

"Oy there, you two!" he shouted out, toddling after them as fast as he was capable. "Wait for me!"


	13. That's Enough Now

A/N: Uhm, okay. I don't know how happy I am with the way this chapter turned out, to be perfectly honest. I tried to do justice to what transpires but...ugh, I don't know. Somehow I think it fell short, but this is as good as gets, unfortunately.

Anyway, this is rather short and was meant to be extended with part of the next chapter, but I chose to end it where it ends now. Mostly, I did this because I had promised those of you who have been following this story an update shortly after December 1st. This isn't really that _shortly _afterward, but that's due to a mixture of writer's block, finals, and work- three perfect ingredients for a recipe for disaster.

But it's up now, good or bad, so I really hope you guys enjoy it. I'd love to get some feedback on this one, so please let me know what you thought.

* * *

The five of them had been resting in the church ruins for close to an hour now.

Jack was lounging on the lowest landing of the rotting stairs that lead to the bell tower. He was on his back, one leg hanging over the edge, and his right hand was drawing pictures in the air with his pointer finger.

Pintel and Ragetti were successfully entertaining one another with balancing acts involving the boat oars. Ragetti, Anamaria noticed, seemed to be better at it than Pintel, who occupied himself with throwing Ragetti off balance more than he did attempting the trick himself. They would repeat the same act over and over again; Ragetti would manage to get an oar in the air with the mere support of his palm, and Pintel would scream at, push, or in some way distract Ragetti enough to make him drop the oar. Pintel would then proceed to laugh at Ragetti and mock his lack of skill.

The performance got tiring after awhile, which was rather unfortunate for Anamaria, considering she had no alternative source for entertainment aside from her compass, which as of late, had been indecisively spinning back and forth in no particular direction. This was the sole reason why the group could not continue any farther in the search. Jack had been adamant they stay on the island until she got a clear heading, even if it meant spending a night or two.

James had left some time ago to, as he had claimed, gather up some firewood. For the time being, the sky was still illuminated with the fading rays of the afternoon sun. She figured there was enough leftover daylight to insure her a safe few hours of search for her friend, as well a head clearing walk that might assist in a definite compass reading.

She rose from the corner in which she had been kneeling and brushed off her pants.

"Where are you off to?" Jack asked suddenly, not bothering to look away from the invisible pictures he drew in the air.

The question startled her, particularly because she had anticipated being able to sneak away silently, seeing as how the other members of her party were sufficiently occupied.

"Just for a walk," she said as casually as possible. "I'm hopin' it'll help me with the compass."

"Don't talk to strangers!" Ragetti warned with a giggle, as he managed to evade a swipe of Pintel's arm at his balancing oar.

Jack didn't say anything, and despite Ragetti's joking suggestion, he and Pintel seemed thoroughly amused with their circus trick and otherwise indifferent to whatever it was Anamaria elected to do.

Without another word about the matter, she slipped out the closest hole in the stone wall of the church and began her trek in the direction of the beach.

* * *

James sat strategically between beach and tide, wanting to allow his feet to touch the lapping waves, but not any other part of his body, particularly that upon which he sat. However, this concern of his began to pale in comparison to his ever perplexing train of thought, and gradually the ocean water began to soak the entire lower half of his body.

He was more preoccupied with the sun bursting into a million different shades of violet, pink, and orange as the day drew to a close. He had been gazing at the horizon for the entire time he had been contemplating on the beach. Though he had hoped it might have derived some clear answers to him about decisions towards his future, it had yet to speak a word.

To make matters worse, he had yet to discover any concrete resolutions of his own.

It was at this moment that the familiar, yet completely unexpected voice of Anamaria emerged from the tangles of the surrounding jungle.

"You've been gone so long, I'm a bit disappointed this entire half of the forest isn't cut down," she teased.

He turned sharply to see her approaching. He was startled, at first, by her sudden appearance. However, this initial emotion was rapidly replaced by an embarrassingly childlike giddiness that he was determined to make unapparent.

"I'm only resting," he explained nonchalantly, gesturing towards a small pile of wood that he had, in fact, managed to harvest in the time he had been gone.

She came to sit a foot away from him. Having already removed her boots, she extended her feet into the warm tide and dug her toes into the slick, wet sand beneath the waves.

After allowing a contented sigh escape, she observed softly, "You seem a bit perplexed."

He nodded and exhaled.

"Yeah, _a bit._"

They sat for another moment in silence while Anamaria shifted impatiently.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to discuss what transpired between us on the ship."

He glanced over to meet her eyes, which were unsettlingly bright and expectant. He sighed as subtly as he could manage and abandoned his lean on the palm of his hands in favor of sitting up, cross-legged. He hoped this position might appear less apathetic.

"Ana, I…I don't believe we have to…"

She cocked her head, but because he was busy sheepishly drawing lines in the sand with his pointer finger he was unable to see this response. Such was his intention, after all.

"But we do have to, I think," she urged. "Have to and _should, _if you ask me."

He shook his head.

"No, no, no…we _shouldn't._"

There was an excruciating pause on her part, followed by a sigh, and an audible, frustrated sucking of the upper teeth.

"I'll tell you why," he began. "There would be absolutely no point to it. _You _have your goals, I have mine. Say, in the process of said discussion, we discovered something _detrimental_ about one another's inner emotions. Where would we go from there? Absolutely nowhere, because our aspirations could never overlap, Ana, they simply _couldn't." _

She narrowed her eyes at him, and this he saw because he had decided to make eye contact with her following his last statement.

"It sounds to me as if you're assuming far too much, James."

"Am I really?" his tone was becoming harsher as his patience dwindled. "Because if I'm not mistaken, it was _you _that wanted a discussion. Now, if I was inclined to gamble, I might wager a bet that a more apathetic person couldn't careless and that you, on the other hand, _just might _have an emotional bind or two. Am I wrong?"

For a moment she glared at him abhorrently, before turning away and gritting her jaw closed against its growing quiver.

"And what of you, aspiring commodore?" she spat the title. "What emotional bind, if any, did it create for you?"

"That's beside the point," he insisted. "This is about our respective futures. We must take those into consideration above everything else."

She studied him for a brief period of time, her face a mixture of anger and suspicion. He replied with an expression of unintentionally evident remorse.

"And of what threat would I be to your future, James?" she asked, her soft voice churning with irritation, skepticism and hope.

Because she was beginning to close in on the vulnerability of his secret, he neglected to answer her and rose from his seated position with every intention to abandon the situation as it was. He hated to leave so abruptly, but there was truly no other way out. He'd have to be uncouth and horrible. It was only fair for both of them. But even after he had grabbed his discarded boots and began to walk back towards the encampment, he felt the familiar glass paper skin from earlier that day on the back of his hand.

He knew what would await him if he turned around. He knew he should have jerked his hand away and kept walking, but his better judgment had once again failed him. A part of him, that was apparently much stronger than his practicality, knew he had to look into her copper eyes one last time, before she came to abhor him, before he'd have to put a final end to this fantasy.

When his eyes met with hers, she asked him in slight whisper, "What if I told you I was falling in love with you? What of your future then?"

His stomach began to churn in the most delightfully sickening of ways. A chilling wave of euphoria washed over him, causing his knees to become less stable than before. Words could not form his parched throat, despite the fact that he had already parted his lips. He knew something would have to be said in response. Some manner of word, sentence, or phrase would need to fill the ever widening gap of silence.

But he was wrong. As he searched his mind frantically for something appropriate to fill the void, Anamaria brought her hands to either sides of his face, palms covering his cheeks, both index fingers slightly hooked behind the crook of his earlobes. She drew his mouth gently towards hers, and from here, he fell hopelessly into her lips.

The boots that he had been grasping fell to the sand when his left hand became limp and more interested in gracing the small of her back. His right hand rose to the back of her head, fingers interweaving with her slightly matted, charcoal-black strands.

The entanglement ensued for an extended period of time, neither one sure, or interested in exactly how long. The kiss was gentle, but ardent. The result of suppressing and denying feelings was evident in their movements; in the way Anamaria's hand crawled eagerly up the side of James' scalp, intertwining with his hair, and how the hand positioned at the base of her spine had gradually been drawing her in closer to him.

He would allow himself to enjoy the foreign, spicy sweet taste of her mouth, the subtle musk of her scent, and the comforting, yet exhilarating feel of her body's curves pressed against him. For a bittersweet moment, he wouldn't force himself to consider what would happen when the kiss broke. In this instance, it was just she and him, two evidently lost and confused souls finding a temporary solace in being intertwined with one another.

He didn't expect that it would be her to break off the kiss, particularly not as early as she did.

Both of her hands had drifted down to his lower forearms, and she used this leverage to both unlock their lips and end the contact between their bodies. She didn't, however, break the embrace that still remained between their arms.

"I apologize," she said faintly, her eyes cast downward. "But I had to know what that would be like before you disappeared and I lost the chance."

He stared back at her quizzically as he allowed one hand to leave her waist and comfortingly brush a few stray strands from her face.

"What are you talking about?" he asked in a voice as soft and as misty with intimacy as her own.

When her eyes met with his, he could have sworn he detected the onset of bloodshot vein growth and beads of water beginning to form at the far corners. But the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon at this point, and so it was difficult to see for sure in the dull light of the waning moon. Besides that, it was particularly hard to believe or accept that any tears springing from Anamaria's eyes would be intended for him.

She chuckled half-heartedly in her throat.

"James, I'm no fool. I know you're planning your escape back to Port Royal. I can see the plot strengthening in your eyes every day."

The guilt sank in his stomach like a rock. He had neither and answer nor a retort to that.

"It's fine," she assured. "I'd never do anything to keep you from your honor."

A grin grew steadily on his face. He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered amusedly,

"My dear, you already have."

His left hand, which was in the closest proximity to her face, titled her chin upward in an effort to continue the kiss. Instead, she placed two fingers over his lips, halting the motion entirely.

She smiled wearily at him.

"That's enough now, Commodore." 


	14. A Fight for The Chest

A/N: I think I can honestly say that this is, in my opinion, the best written chapter of this story so far (which, admittedly isn't saying a whole lot). I was very disappointed in it when I first hammered it out, so I went over it a few thousand times before I arrived at a satisfactory product. I've been trying, oh so very hard, to use less adverbs in my dialogue. It is so very tempting, but I think I restrained myself pretty well in the end (sometimes I resorted to _describing _what was said rather than actually typing out the spoken words).

The next installment will be the end of _Where Sea Winds Blow, _as it will be the wrap-up from the original movie. But never fear, if you like this story! I am already plotting this universe's _At World's End_. Maybe the next part will gain more of a following. We'll see!

That's all for now, I guess. I would much appreciate your feedback (it doesn't have to be long or anything, just a few quick words about your opinion of it). Thanks again to those who have commented, favorited, and alerted! And, of course, to those of you who have just now stumbled across it and decided to take a crack at it. I appreciate your interest!

* * *

She had cried a little last night.

It was not something she was proud of, nor was it a fact she wished to share with rest of her crew. When everyone had gone to sleep within their own respective coves in the church ruins, she snuck out and found a reasonably distant cluster of palm trees to hide in while she got it over with. She allowed herself ten minutes and then roughly wiped what remained of the salty liquid away on her sleeve and returned to feign sleep.

She wouldn't let herself think about it too much. She knew all along what the outcome would be, anyway. She had reminded herself over and over to not let herself attach, to not go soft. Yet, here she was, allowing the towering stonewalls that had protected her heart for so long to crumble at her feet.

She had come to know James Norrington as the sort of man that fell in love easily and let the matter distract him from what he really wanted until it was too late. When he offered to run away with her and start some new existence on the sea, just the two of them, she found herself assuming his role from earlier. All of a sudden, she was the voice of reason, encouraging him to go back to Port Royal, to earn his rightful place. She told him this moment was not worth the sacrifice and that he'd grow to hate her for it later.

She knew she had disappointed him greatly, but it was a necessary evil. This crippling feeling of loss that weighed heavy on her chest would go away eventually. She assured herself that she wouldn't always wonder what might have happened if she and James tried to make something work. She knew, deep down that they would never be happy together, even if she had managed to envision a future for them in which they were. It was just wishful thinking, not a logical assumption.

She had hoped that walking around in circles beneath the searing mid-afternoon sun would help to sweat a little of it out of her system. The compass was still spinning around frantically, but she wanted just as much as anyone besides Jack to get off the island. She was fairly positive they were on the wrong piece of land anyway, given that she'd had many other things on her mind during the voyage than the chest of Davy Jones. The process of Jack figuring this out would have to be sped up if there was any hope of getting back to the ship before the end of the month.

She trudged over sand dune after sand dune, Jack and James following in tow. Jack had managed to occupy the somewhat awkward and tension-filled silence that loomed between his two comrades with inane chatter and sporadic complaints. For a while, she and James had humored their captain with indifferent, somewhat-guttural verbal acknowledgement of anything he said, not truly listening. After an hour or two, however, both grew tired of this and chose to ignore him altogether. Jack didn't seem to notice or mind.

When he finally said something noteworthy it took her by surprise.

"It's a bit funny. 'Seems like we're going about in circles. Am I the only one out of us three that senses that?"

James didn't answer. His lack of facial cues seemed to suggest this was not out of his typical, intended apathy, but rather because he had not been listening at all. Anamaria covered up the situation as best she could.

"I think you're mistaken. The compass has been a bit ambiguous, but we're headed in a general direction."

Jack cocked an eyebrow at her, suspiciously.

"Then why am I hesitant to believe you?"

She attempted to hide her uneasiness as she turned around, hoping to continue on with the journey as if nothing had occurred.

Instead, Jack pulled her back with a slight tug of her shoulder. He proceeded to confiscate the compass from the clutches of her fingers, but not before being met with some opposition.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed, attempting to pull the device back towards her. "The compass won't work any better in your hands!"

He eventually freed it from her grasp and inspected it briefly for any sign of detrimental wear and tear. His eyes then flickered from her, to an exhausted-looking Norrington, and then back to the compass.

"'Should 'ave known…" he sighed to himself as he shook the instrument roughly.

Anamaria was ready to blurt out some sort of confrontational response when Jack twitched and abruptly began a hasty toddle towards a certain patch of sand. Her initial instinct was to look over at James in order to exchange looks of bewilderment. She wasn't surprised to see that he was purposefully avoiding her eyes by staring fixedly at the ground, almost as if he had anticipated what she intended to do, but the lack of reciprocation still hurt.

Jack Sparrow's whistle and subsequent gesture-which involved a combination of jumping in place, waving his arms, and almost falling facedown into the sand- distracted them both from the situation at hand and successfully brought them towards the select spot in which Jack now stood.

After being instructed with a simple hand gesture from his captain to dig, James began lifting sand with the shovel that he had been carrying over his shoulder. Thick, grainy clouds of white sprayed behind him as he fervently carved a small hole in the beach. This was clearly no easy task, as the initial layers of sand were dry and continued to fall and refill the area that had just been emptied.

Anamaria couldn't help but study his face as he worked. The fair skin of his cheeks and forehead became a darker crimson as the assignment pressed onward. The same curtains of hair hung lifelessly in front of him, now damp with sweat. She could still see his expression clearly from in between the strands; his jaw was gritted in bitter frustration, his brow wrinkled, eyes narrowed. He normally appeared this agitated while in the middle of trying, manual labor, but she knew that this was a combination of physical exertion and an attempt to vent any anger that had resulted from their discussion the night before.

She tried to make herself look away, but felt a certain hesitation preventing her from doing so. It was as if she subconsciously wanted to punish herself for hurting him, even if she was sure it was the right thing for _both _of them and that he'd thank her someday. Certainly pushing him away couldn't have been because of some subconscious fear she had of being tied down, could it? She was fully aware of her tendency to think with a strong sense of self-survival-not so much selfish as it was concern for her own well-being- and it was certainly possible, she supposed, that it was assuming an influential role in her decision making here, as well.

But that couldn't have been it, she affirmed to herself. This was for a greater good.

All three of them were violently thrown out of their respective trains of thought when the shovel hit something hard. The blood in Anamaria's veins became frozen solid, and she gathered from the looks of the two men on either side of her that this reaction had been shared.

Jack leapt from his assumed lotus position to stumble over to the newly created hole, Anamaria in tow. The party of three soon stood around the gaping pit, staring disbelievingly into the three foot depth at what was clearly a small wooden chest. Though she had always known of the chest's existence, and never truly doubted it either, the reality of being in its presence was difficult to fully accept. She then reminded herself there was always the possibility this chest was filled with something besides the discarded heart of a forsaken sea captain.

The chest was subsequently lifted by their somewhat unsteady hands, and brought out of the hole. Breath was momentarily stolen as Jack turned the key and opened the lid, revealing yet another, much smaller chest buried beneath yellowed lace and faded letters. There was a moment of doubt, but it was soon killed by the audible, unmistakable rhythm of a heart beat resonating from within.

James turned to Jack, a look of disbelief and amusement painted across his face.

"_You actually were telling the truth…" _

Jack scoffed, giving him a sideways glance.

"_I do that quite a lot. You people are always surprised." _

It was not quite as surprising, Anamaria thought, as the unfamiliar and equally unexpected third voice that suddenly called out from behind them:

"_With good reason!" _

The trio turned in unison to see the thoroughly unpredictable sight of a soaking Will Turner, followed closely by what could only be Elizabeth Swann in deckhand's clothes, supporting an extremely frazzled, middle-aged man who appeared as though he might have at once been someone of naval importance.

All three rose gradually, somewhat unsure of how to react.

"_How did you get here?" _Jack asked finally, after a brief lull. It seemed like somewhat of anti-climactic break to the tension, but it _was_ what all three of them had been pondering at any rate.

Nevertheless, Anamaria gradually lost interest in the ensuing back and forth banter between Jack and Will as she studied that man that hung limply from Elizabeth Swann's unstable shoulder. He appeared to be fatigued and sickly; the heavy, dark circles that hung pendulously from beneath his eyes contrasted greatly with the unsettling yellowish hue of his skin, and the expression on his face was one of exhausted agony.

Almost instinctively, she approached the pair and inquired as soon as she was within a reasonable proximity.

"What's happened to this man?"

Elizabeth regarded her with some unmistakable aversion. Anamaria imagined it originated from the time she held her at gunpoint and offered to give her back to Barbossa's crew, or the occasion in which they argued about which tactic would be the most useful in outrunning the Black Pearl. Following that, she was not entirely willing to be pleasant to Elizabeth after _her _idea worked. She supposed it was pride, but it didn't seem right that the judgment of a governor's daughter would eclipse that of a lifelong pirate. Therefore, she vented her frustration by being thoroughly unpleasant and abrasive to her whenever she was given the opportunity. She somewhat regretted that petty behavior now, but not enough so to formally apologize.

"I suppose he's fallen ill," Elizabeth eventually responded, somewhat unsure. "We'd managed to evade an attack from the kraken, but he had spent some time in the water when we were eventually able to get away…I'd probably wager that he had already come down with something and that the temperature of the-"

"Yes, yes, I understand."

She knew that cutting off Miss Swann halfway through a sentence wouldn't help to aid relations between them any, but she was more concerned in helping the unfortunate gentleman than hearing potentially digressive recounts.

Anamaria then placed a gentle palm against the man's forehead, causing him to almost immediately recoil back into Elizabeth, not unlike a frightened boy hiding behind his mother's skirts. Beforehand, however, her skin had felt the searing heat of his within the brief period of contact.

"He's got a strong fever," she observed. She paused to gaze at the suffering man contemplatively, before eventually making eye contact with Elizabeth and asking her to take him to their rowboat wherein he would have the opportunity to rest.

"Don't listen to her, Miss Swan!" the man protested with a hoarse, gravelly voice. "She's a pirate and therefore undoubtedly leading us into a trap…"

She slightly glared at the man as Elizabeth consoled him with whispered pleas to be more pleasant. Anamaria never appreciated assumptions and stereotypes, two unfortunate side-effects of being a dark-skinned, female privateer. Violence, or the much more benign raising of voice, were often the only two options at her disposal that effectively remedied this kind of a situation. Given the circumstances, she found some limited manner of patience within that allowed her to resort to neither.

"Sir, of what use would you be to me? Have you any riches on your person that didn't wash away when you were wallowing in the waves? Does your communicable illness bestow some kind of power to see where treasure is hidden?"

Elizabeth nodded at him.

"She has a point, Captain Whitting."

The man, Captain Whitting, glared at both women, but not without a certain sheepishness from being proven wrong and having no effective rebuttal.

Anamaria could feel him flinch as she ducked beneath his arm and draped it across her shoulders. Elizabeth followed suit.

"We'll push the boat out to the beach together," she said across Whitting to Elizabeth. "I assume the men will join us shortly after. We'll then row back to-"

The resonating clang of steel blades interrupted her and caused all three of them to sharply turn their heads towards the area of chest, wherein Will and Jack were seen crossing swords.

Elizabeth nearly dropped all of Captain Whitting's weight onto Anamaria as she gasped and shrieked out, "_Will!" _

Will's soft tone of voice was barely heard over the sea wind as he stared Jack down the length of his blade.

"_I keep the promises I make, Jack. I intend to free my father, and I hope you're here to see it." _

_

* * *

  
_

It was strange seeing Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann again. Though it was no secret to him -or anyone else, he supposed- that he had been entertaining a desire to return to glory at Port Royal, laying eyes on Will and Elizabeth felt like seeing someone alive who had been dead for a decade or two. It was almost as if some part of him never intended to encounter them again, which he found quite curious. Did he really think they'd never cross paths?

Or perhaps it was from some reluctance to. Maybe he had secretly hoped he'd never have to witness their happiness; the life he should have had with the woman that was supposed to be his.

But stranger still, the only object he felt territorial about was the heart that Will was preparing to stab. Seeing Elizabeth again didn't conjure up any repressed disappointment or heartache, nor did the fact that she was with another man. He felt nothing but the strange pang of bewilderment at their presence.

He had to admit, the lack of emotion on his part was liberating. It felt as if a huge, formerly unacknowledged weight had fallen from his shoulders. He could do anything now, including taking the heart for himself.

After all, what had Jack or William done to deserve it? His captain was simply trying to once more weasel his way out of self-inflicted trouble, and Will wanted to do something similar for his neglecting, selfish father. When would it be James Norrington's turn to choose the easy way out _and get it_? He knew he deserved this. The heart was his for the taking, and because Will was emotionally soft and Jack was in his usual drunken state, he had a leg up on the competition.

And it wasn't as if he had a choice, really. Anamaria, who might have been an exception to his current plans, had expressed the night before that though she cared for him, she didn't have the heart to bar him from his goal. He had been sincere in his offer to her. He had reasoned out that, perhaps, carving out some kind of a life with a close friend would have been a suitable replacement to earning back his prior station in Port Royal. Perhaps an existence with her would be so blissfully simple that he'd forget about his failures. Perhaps they would have been able to literally sail away from what plagued them now. Perhaps, it would be like a rebirth, a fresh start. The past would become the distant echoes of long-ago, seemingly conjured up in the course of a nearly forgotten nightmare.

Or maybe she was right. Maybe it was only fitting that he go back and reclaim his position. Maybe happiness, for him, would only be found in the Royal Navy, not in the arms of someone he cared for. Either way, he couldn't stay here. He couldn't be in the company of a woman he'd grown to love, knowing he'd never have her no matter how strong his affection became over time. He was crawling his way through a collapsing tunnel and there was only one clear direction he could go to escape.

His mind was made up.

As soon as Jack and Will had crossed blades, James added his.

He couldn't help but smirk triumphantly at the obviously tired, underfed William Turner. He'd win this match, yet.

"_I can't let you do that either. So sorry." _

It was then that Jack had the gall to assume James had joined his side of the potential foray by adding in a mocking tone,

"_I knew you'd warm up to me someday."_

James was well aware that Jack knew better, but even so, he had to make his point clear. He abruptly swiped his blade from Will to Jack, causing both men to jump and reposition the direction of their own pieces.

"_Lord Beckett desires the contents of that chest," _he explained to the attentive audience that surrounded him. "_I deliver it, I get my life back." _

Jack was evidently amused by the irony of the situation.

"_Ah, the dark side of ambition." _

James returned Jack's sardonic grin.

"_Oh I prefer to see it as the promise of redemption." _

_

* * *

  
_

Elizabeth had just begun a hurried descent towards the scene of the fight, when Anamaria grabbed a swift hold of her forearm.

She made an attempt to free herself from the other woman's grasp by futilely yanking her appendage towards her chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, incredulously. "We need to stop them!"

Anamaria shook her head.

"We can't. Attempting to break up a fight for honor amongst men is as useless as trying to stop the time."

Though clearly unsatisfied, Elizabeth didn't make another attempt to approach the quarrel. She huffed and sighed a few times, crossing and uncrossing her arms in frustrated worry.

"Come," Anamaria beckoned as gently as she could. "We still have to get the row boat."

For a brief moment, Elizabeth remained where she was and gazed hopelessly at the sight of the three men slashing at one another, chewing her bottom lip nervously all the while. She finally turned to face the pirate and her sickly captain, an aura of hope glinting in her eyes.

"Regardless of what happens, someone has to protect the chest. We should either confiscate it now or one of us should stay in a close proximity while the other fetches the boat. Don't you agree?"

Anamaria then reluctantly shifted her line of sight to the fiasco occurring below. She had wanted nothing to do with any of it. She was somewhat familiar with the opposite sex's method of resolving certain conflicts, and was well aware that, occasionally, such a situation called for aggression. She expected them to engage in some manner of a heated, three-way sword battle until their masculine need for spontaneous, uninhibited physical violence was satiated. No one would die, despite probable threats from one or all three of them as not one man among them had the heart to truly kill one another.

As for the chest, she had no personal interest. She was not one to take the easy way out, preferring somewhat of a challenging struggle in the process of achieving that which she lusted after. Besides that, she had seen Jack's result of a negotiation with Captain Davy Jones and had somewhat decided it might not have been the best option.

Nevertheless, Elizabeth had a point. The chest was of an extremely valuable nature to many, warranting it a proper rescue and neutral care-taker that could, perhaps, assist in seeing that its usage was granted to the most deserving party.

"Very well," she sighed, gradually slipping the Captain off her shoulder and allowing him to rest against the trunk of a palm tree that grew beside them. "I'll keep watch over it while you bring the boat. We've hid it in the nearby foliage with Ragetti and Pintel, so tell them Captain's orders are to haul it to the tide."

Elizabeth was noticeably disappointed in this suggestion, but Anamaria had expected that she would be. She understood Elizabeth's wish to be near Will, but she assumed the temptation to try and split up the fight would be too great and the chest itself would be forgotten.

She solemnly nodded in agreement, and then knelt down beside the Captain to fully inform him of the newly developed plan. Anamaria, meanwhile, set off in Elizabeth's formerly intended direction to take possession of the chest. The three swordsmen had already charged off after one another into the tropical forest, so she wouldn't have to expect any possible interference from them.

What she never intended to encounter was the sight of Pintel and Ragetti, chest in hand, running gleefully over sand dunes to the entrance of the jungle. Having seen it, however, she figured their interest in the object's value should have been anticipated. In any other case, she might have just allowed them custody, having already decided that no contender so far deserved the chest any more than they did. Jack, being _Jack, _was trying to evade trouble, Will Turner wanted to inexplicably assist a father who was probably taking advantage of him and deserved his sentence at any rate, and James, though she didn't blame him for his decision, wanted the heart to buy back a life he could have earned himself through honest, hard work. But then again, what had honesty and determination really ever accomplished for him in the end?

Nevertheless, the two thieves were clearly en route to the boat, which she and the others needed to get back on the ship. She was left with no other alternative than to confront them, but she knew she'd not be able to accomplish it by herself.

As she ran back the way she had come, she passed by Captain Whitting, who was still seated beneath the shade of his palm tree. He had been too occupied with a coughing fit to notice her reappearance, and though he had won her concern, she decided there wasn't much more she could do for him at this juncture than leave him be.

It wasn't far into the foliage before she came up behind Elizabeth. She proceeded to grasp her shoulder, causing her to jump and let out a brief scream. When Elizabeth saw that the person responsible was only her newest female ally, she quickly clapped two hands over mouth. Anamaria once more neglected to apologize, instead mentioning immediately that Ragetti and Pintel were making off with the chest as they spoke.

Elizabeth, who seemed suddenly overcome with anger and shock, consented to helping Anamaria take the chest back by force. The two women then decided on the wisest path to take through the trees, and swiftly disappeared into the darkness.


	15. A Journey Ahead

A/N: Official last chapter of WSWB!!! The very "cliffhangy" ending sets up (sort of) for what will occur in the next story. I haven't yet thought of a title for it, but the first chapter is under way. I plan to restructure my marketing strategy once more for the next "At World's End" installment so that I can, hopefully, get more readers. The next story will be more of AWE revised (aka my version) than a love story, but there will be plenty of that, as well.

So again, thanks to all the readers. I appreciate your feedback and I hope to continue earning your support in the next installment.

Thank yoooo!

* * *

It was a blazing hot day, typical Caribbean weather, with a few light breezes coming off the waves to soothe the heat. Nevertheless, he still shivered as if sitting in the middle of the arctic.

He hadn't felt this terrible in a very long time. The pains of his illness were only exacerbated by the fact that he was in the company of pirates. He was risking arrest, losing his station as Captain, and perhaps much worse at the hands of the privateers.

But the truth of it was, there wasn't anything he could do to prevent it. There was no method of escape available to him, and even if there was, he'd likely die from whatever sickness currently plagued him before reaching a safe haven. Besides that, he had made a promise to Weatherby. No matter what happened, he had to keep Elizabeth Swann safe. As long as there was a beating heart in his chest, he'd do what he must to protect her. Alexander Whitting would die before he failed a close friend. Elizabeth was clearly not going to leave her fiancée behind, and so he was left with no choice but to follow her and William Turner wherever they went, even if it meant spending time in the company of pirates.

Despite his devotion to his cause, he was less than eager to venture into the jungle behind Elizabeth. He figured he'd not be of a much help in his state, and there wasn't any clear and present danger that he was aware of. It seemed as if she was somewhat familiar with this crew anyway, so as long as she steered clear of the sword battle, she'd probably be fine.

With that peace of mind, Captain Whitting felt secure in indulging his desire for rest. He made himself as comfortable as humanly possible against the trunk of the palm tree, and closed his eyes after finding a reasonably comfortable position in which to rest his head. There were a few minutes of serene, quiet sleep like he hadn't known in a long while before an unsettling noise rattled him back awake.

A ways out on the water, Alexander caught the last half of a mast with torn sails disappearing into the waves as if it had suddenly been sucked downward. This extremely peculiar sight unnerved him a bit, as there was no plausible explanation for the manner in which the vessel had been taken under.

Any doubts he had about rising from where he was and seeking out Elizabeth were immediately silenced when he saw odd, moving forms emerging from the tide. They appeared a few minutes after the last event and were of such a perverse condition that he could not qualify them as anything but demons, possible spirits of the sea that came to collect souls of the damned. The sight made his blood freeze and hair stand on end. Never in his life had he seen something so unnatural.

Their moves were jerky and awkward. Many of them were bent over or slightly slouched, forced to drag whatever manner of weapon they wielded in their hands across the sand. The bright glare of the sun mostly obscured a full view of them, but their shadowy, silhouetted figures provided enough motivation for Alexander to rise and pursue the same path taken by Elizabeth into the jungle.

He was almost positive they hadn't yet seen him, but he still ran as fast as his legs would carry him into the dark, moist shade of the forest canopy.

* * *

It would have been a fairly clever, effortless method of take and escape, had Elizabeth Swann not made a sudden appearance on the path before them.

A smirk had found shelter on her face, yet neither Pintel nor Ragetti could reason why. It was two against one, after all. What chance did a governor's daughter have against two seasoned pirates?

She withdrew her sword, and Pintel gave Ragetti a glance riddled with amusement before they dropped the chest and revealed their own. Turning to face their sole female opponent, Pintel greeted ironically,

"_Hello, poppet." _

They had begun to advance, when a sudden, fast moving form slipped in between them both, grazing both of their shoulders. The figure turned out to be Anamaria, who had managed to come from behind, grab the chest, and proceed to push Elizabeth forward in the direction of the boat's hidden location.

"Hey!" Pintel cried out.

He exchanged a look of disbelief with Ragetti, and both quickly sprung into action, attempting to match the speed of the female duo.

The four of them weaved through the maze of waxy leaves and humidity that was the island's jungle, Pintel and Ragetti finding it difficult to keep up with the couple they pursued. It was the glint of Elizabeth's golden hair in the select few spots of sunlight that gave them away. Movement was somewhat evident, but the two women were doing an unsettlingly good job being stealthy and quick.

Eventually, Anamaria and Elizabeth had managed to get far enough ahead that neither Pintel nor Ragetti could see or hear them. There was a brief moment of disappointment wherein both men ceased the apparently futile attempt to pursue. Pintel threw down his sword and cursed, while Ragetti made a face of unnerved disgust.

It wasn't long to last, as soon following their unfortunate discovery, Elizabeth reappeared running towards them. She soon flew by, followed close behind by a middle aged man whom neither had ever seen before. Pintel was now prepared for the short arrival of Anamaria, who still held the chest close. He extended one foot in her path, successfully causing her to trip, fall flat on her face, and as he had hoped, drop the chest out in front of her.

Both Ragetti and Pintel made to grab it before she could recover and do it herself, but they were instead met by the sudden appearance of Davy Jones' crew who ripped dramatically through the tropical foliage. The chest was immediately forgotten by all three of them, as Ragetti, Pintel, and Anamaria, who had managed to scramble back to a stable footing, darted off in the direction of Elizabeth and the sickly looking man from earlier.

Anamaria had hoped that leaving the chest behind would be a successful deterrent, but the crew seemed to maintain their pursuit, nearly nipping at the heels of her and her two fellow crew members.

When the opposition had caught up and began surrounding them at all sides, the only option available to any of them became painstakingly clear. Since the chest was no longer a bone of contention, Elizabeth, Anamaria, Pintel, Ragetti, and Alexander, the ill-looking man who had arrived on the scene earlier, found themselves teaming up in an effort to fight off the enemy, while still maintaining a steady stride to the beach.

One figure, covered head-to-toe in barnacles, managed to grab Anamaria by the forearm. She remedied the situation by slicing off his hand. Two of the monsters were gaining quickly on Elizabeth from behind. Ragetti called out, "_Heads up!"_, which managed to catch her attention in time.

"_Sword!" _she requested to her allies.

Pintel tossed his as he ran by, allowing her two with which to simultaneously stab both opponents that approached.

The battle went on much the same way as the group continued their chase to the ocean. The effort to stay alive while keeping their foes at bay was distracting enough to keep anyone from considering the boat that remained hidden in the tangles of the forest. It wasn't until they finally remerged onto the sand that Elizabeth called out over the foray,

"The boat! What about the boat?"

In between slashes, Anamaria frantically surveyed the area of the beach, attempting to map out in her mind a potential route back to the location of the hidden vessel. She couldn't yet see a viable way to conduct it without having a member of Davy Jones' crew on her back. Carrying out a small dingy while sword fighting for her life would be nigh impossible.

As she was fabricating a potential plan in her head that involved two persons going back into the jungle, one serving the purpose of protection, the other dragging the desired object, Ragetti announced back to his team that Jack Sparrow had already fetched it. He pointed to the spot on the tide where Jack could be seen near the boat, struggling with a stray member of Jones' crew.

The army of five began to back up in the hopes that they might get a clear opportunity to pile in and retreat to the ship. A similar issue from head-to-head battles with Barbossa's crew began to present itself, as like before, these men could not die. The struggle put up against them had become more of a defense mechanism than an attempt to claim victory. The chances of a smooth escape from the battle front seemed more and more unlikely.

Like an answer to an unspoken prayer, a huge, wooden water wheel of unexplained origin came tearing out of the tropical forest at that very moment, managing to mow down most of the opposing crew as it careened down the beach and through the waves. It eventually slowed, came to a halt, and then fell into the shallows with a reverberating splash. The object itself had managed to momentarily subdue the offense. Unfortunately, it had stolen everyone's attention long enough to let the fallen recover, negating its usefulness.

When the unwieldy object finally crashed, the fight between crews resumed, as did the attempt to fall back to the boat. Swords, wooden paddles, and fishing nets waved wildly as Will and James came to join the fight from the fallen water wheel, Jack following close behind with his personal nemesis.

At one point, Will inexplicably fell unconscious into the boat, prompting Elizabeth to run over to his side.

"_Leave him lie!" _Jack instructed. "_Unless you plan on using him to hit something with." _

When the backs of everyone's calves hit the wooden sides of the boat, the desperation of their situation became blatantly apparent. They had inadvertently cornered themselves into an ambush. Surrounded on all sides by Davy Jones' army, Captain Whitting felt compelled to point out the obvious.

"_We're not getting out of this." _

James paused for a moment, shifting his weight from side-to-side indecisively.

"_Not with the chest," _he stated, matter-of-factly. He then proceeded to turn and reach into the dingy and pull out the discarded chest that Jack had, assumingly, rescued on his way back with the dingy. "_Into the boat." _

Anamaria, who had at some point during the fray shifted to his side, pulled James by the shoulder to face her.

"What are you doing?" she demanded through gritted teeth. "You'll be _killed, _don't you realize that?"

He stared at her fixedly for a brief moment, his eyes so narrowed and piercing it might have been mistaken as a glare.

"I'm making a choice," he replied, sternly. "I regret that you couldn't be a part of it."

His arm then unexpectedly slithered around her waist, and he utilized what little time they had left to press his lips against hers. It wasn't long to last however, as almost as soon as they had made contact, he broke it.

"_Don't wait for me," _he said simply, before releasing her from his arm's grasp and setting off through Davy Jones' crew, back towards the island.

"Like I hell, I won't!"

She had begun to launch after him as soon as their enemies redirected their attention, but two somewhat familiar arms quickly wrapped themselves around her waist, preventing her from going any further.

"You're a bloody fool, James Norrington!" she nearly shrieked, her voice echoing over the shallow waves.

As she struggled to release herself from her bind, Jack's voice suddenly erupted in her ear, revealing her savior's identity.

"Come on then," he uttered in a tone that a father might use with an unruly child. "There's nothing you can do for him now. Into the boat we go."

Jack kept a firm hold on her as the group piled in. She had been so adamant in her aggressive attempts to escape and pursue James that she failed to notice the somewhat bewildered looks given to her by her comrades. Even Pintel and Ragetti seemed to be surprised at the interaction between Anamaria and the former Commodore, almost as if they hadn't taken their own rumors seriously.

Eventually, the boat had floated so far into the depths that James and his attackers could no longer be seen. She had calmed her fits by this time, and Jack had felt fairly confident about releasing his restraint on her.

Despite her best efforts, Anamaria simply couldn't hold back tears as she and her crew paddled in silence. She kept her face averted from everyone, but she could still feel some uneasy eyes on her as she tried not to sniff or wipe her face and look even more like a dejected child.

When they neared the ship, Mr. Gibbs' voice could be heard announcing the presence of their longboat. Out of habit, she turned toward the source of the noise and accidently made eye contact with Elizabeth in the process. Elizabeth happened to be regarding her with a look of genuine sorrow and regret, and instead of feeling indignant, Anamaria found herself taking some unexpected refuge in the unnecessary sympathy.

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth muttered.

Anamaria was forced to break the lock between their eyes, lest she begin to weep even more.

"I appreciate it."

* * *

Death and loss were often sudden in a life spent on the water. Most of them were already painfully aware of this fact. Life was rather expendable in a pirate crew; the sea took whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted to.

Yet, the past forty-eight hours and the lives it took with it managed to rattle all of them to the core.

They hadn't expected to be floating in a longboat, what remained of _The Black Pearl, _into the swamps of Tia Dalma, but neither had they anticipated the attack by the Kraken that claimed half of the crew, the _Pearl, _and her Captain.

Or, so they reasoned. Jack Sparrow was nowhere to be seen when the remainder of the crew piled into the last remaining longboat, and because there was not enough time to call out his name _and _search the ship thoroughly, they assumed he had either abandoned ship, been taken by the beast during the chaos, or locked himself in to be taken down honorably.

Yet, because they had almost no other alternative, the lot of them, which included Mr. Gibbs, Elizabeth and Will, Marty, Cotton, Ragetti, Pintel, Anamaria, and a still very ill Captain Alexander, decided it might be best to revisit the swamp in hopes of some answers. Tia Dalma had given the impression to those in the group who had already met her that she might have some manner of ability to tell if Jack was alive or not.

It was worth a try, at any rate.

They had been welcomed into Tia Dalma's home with a display of mutual sadness and sympathy before anyone had given her an explanation for their visit or a recount of past events. No one was truly able to appreciate the oddity of this, however, as every one of them were in some state of grief.

"Yeh need not mourn Jack's death," Tia Dalma mentioned before anyone had said a word.

This had managed to capture everyone's attention, but it was only Mr. Gibbs who had found the ability to say anything back.

"You mean to say he's still alive? He survived the attack?"

Tia Dalma nodded, but maintained her doleful expression.

"Iah'm afraid it is much worse."

She proceeded to sit down at a desk centered in the middle of the room and gestured for everyone else to follow suit. They did so, gradually, attention focused solely on her.

"A deal was made between two opposin' worlds," she explained, studying some arrangement of objects of the surface of the desk before her. "Jack is in deh middle of dis trade. He has become a promised price."

"Of _who_?" Mr. Gibbs urged, seemingly still the only individual with the ability to pursue conversation. "Who has taken Jack?"

Tia Dalma slowly glanced up at him, her lips beginning to purse together ever so slightly, as if to suggest the onset of irritation.

"Dat is not fer me to say."

Will rose and replaced his current seat with the one located across from her. A sly smile had already begun to replace her souring lips, and a flirtatious lean towards him as he came to sit made it clear to all those present why he'd done so in the first place.

"Please," he asked softly, allowing her to gently brush her fingers against his. "Tell us how we can save him."

Her smile widened.

"Dat is not fer me to say," she repeated. "But I wondah…where does a crew find deh enthusiasm to save a Captain who _left dem to die?_"

The crew exchanged glances with each other, all of them a mixture of horror, disbelief, and finally, betrayal. This caused Elizabeth to speak up.

"Left us? As in, he abandoned ship during the attack?"

Tia Dalma nodded.

"That two-faced son of a snake!" Pintel exclaimed.

Ragetti nodded. "I'd like to bring 'im back just so's I could give 'im a piece of my mind!"

Tia Dalma glanced bemusedly at Will, who seemed to be lost in somber contemplation.

"I need Jack," Will admitted. "He's the only person that can help me save my father."

"Please," Elizabeth added in a near whisper. "Can you help us at all?"

The Obeah woman rose from her seated position and turned her head towards the staircase to her far left. At that moment, footsteps were heard descending from the top landing, growing closer and closer with each thump.

The crew found themselves gravitating closer to the staircase in heated anticipation and curiosity, wondering what manner of being was meant to appear and answer their questions. Most expected some kind of spirit, or creature not of this world to eventually materialize before them on the landing. It seemed only likely that the one individual with the piece of knowledge they required would be of a supernatural form.

Their assumptions were somewhat correct, at any rate. What met their eyes on the final stair was the last human being on earth any of them had ever planned to see.


	16. Announcement and Some Deleted Scenes

_Announcement _

I don't know how else to communicate to all the subscribers of this story at once, so I thought I'd go ahead and make an announcement chapter (which will, hopefully, not land me in a world of trouble). This is just a little FYI to all of you who have subscribed to Where Sea Winds Blow and are patiently awaiting an update. I have already begun progress on '_**As If The Sea Should Part**_' which is the direct sequel to this story and will cover the events of At World's End (but, like with this version, it'll just be my spin on things).

So, if you liked this story and are wanting to find out what happens in my pirates AU, then please go check out 'As If The Sea Should Part'. Emily Dickinson provided the title, by the way. =D

In the hopes that this chapter (and entire story) won't be completely deleted on the basis that is has no 'fanfiction' in it, I've decided to include some "deleted scenes" as it were from 'Sea Winds'. These are scenes that I originally intended to include in the story and had even somewhat written out before I decided to scrap them for various reasons. The first one is from Chapter 14.

* * *

**Anamaria Joins the Fray**

A/N- I was originally going to have Anamaria join three-way sword fight on Isla Cruces. She was going to do this in the hopes of keeping James from taking the heart. I think I decided later that her morals would be a bit different and that she might be more understanding of James' decision. I think I also didn't want to spend the whole chapter writing about the swordfight. So there ya go. After you've read it, don't hesitate to let me know which 'Anamaria' you liked better.

Anamaria stared at James disbelievingly. Was he truly condescending to this? After all the concern he'd had about restoring his _rightful _place of honor, he had now decided to come about it by engaging in a sword fight over who would get to the _easy_ way out of their respective issues. It was as disappointing to her as it was infuriating.

She soon realized that she had inexplicably left her pistol on the ship. She cursed under her breath, knowing full well that the only options left to her were to either let the madness unfold or blindly join in, hoping she might successfully keep the heart from all three of them, or at the very least, from James Norrington. The fact of the matter was, no practical solution would come from killing one another, and she felt obligated to remind James how high he allegedly was above this sort of behavior. There was also the matter of Davy Jones and his crew. Eventually, he'd realize that the key was missing, put two and two together, and be on his way to Isla Cruces, which was reason enough for her to speed up this charade and get them, and the heart, safely back onto the _Pearl_.

At this point, attempting to stop the gentlemen by intervening with words of reason would be like trying to separate two fighting rottweilers. The only real choice left was to throw a wrench into the works.

She transferred the limp weight of Captain Whitting back to Elizabeth.

"Do you think you can load the chest into our rowboat and bring it over to the _Pearl_?"

Elizabeth renewed her former look of terror, but this time infused it with an aura of irritation.

"_What?" _she gasped. "This is insane, and I'm _not_ leaving without Will."

Anamaria nodded in understanding. "If I do this right, you won't have to. Now, please, get everything ready on the rowboat and give _me _ten minutes or so to straighten this out."

She then hastily withdrew her blade and charged down a sand dune towards the scene around the chest. Elizabeth's complaints rang in her ear, but she chose to filter them out. This was an action that specifically called for very little thinking. Otherwise, she might have changed her mind.

She soon found herself stabbing her steel into the middle of the group, hoping that her ability to act was on par.

"The chest is mine," she announced to the three pairs of eyes that now surveyed her. "Imagine, if you will, the first female pirate captain with a pet _Kraken _to call her own. Not bad, eh?"

Jack seemed a bit satisfied with this alternative, lowering his weapon, slightly.

"Certainly Captain Anamaria can, first, keep said beast from devouring her beloved friend?"

"Friend, indeed," she jeered. "You and your _Pearl _will be the first to go."

Jack shrugged, returning his sword to its former height.

"In that case…"

She felt as if she was doing a rather fine job disguising her intimidation. Due to the fact that she hadn't thought the matter through entirely, she had not truly considered the talents of her opponents. Jack, though drunk, was always a very fine and limber swordsman. William Turner, undoubtedly the most talented of the three, could take her down with one swipe, had he allowed himself to use his right hand in combat. However, being the gracious, honest man that he was, Anamaria knew he didn't have the stomach to kill or even hurt her. He'd fight fairly and therein was his weakness, though not a very big one still.

James, on the other hand, was the man worth worrying about. Though maybe not as agile as Will or even Jack, he was nevertheless very competent and well-trained- much better than her, at any rate. But the fact of the matter was, neither Jack nor Will would harm her. James, on the other hand, was a man she had spurned, a man who had proven to have more than one dark side. She felt as if she didn't quite know him as well as she thought, and so it seemed probable to her that he might resort to whatever was necessary to get the chest.

He was now eying her more cautiously than the other two men, clearly searching her face for reasoning behind her sudden action. James staring her down accusingly made her feel unexplainably guilty, and so she quickly tore her line of sight away from his.

"I haven't got all day, gents!" she shouted, following with an impromptu strike at Will.

This action was met with an anticipated parry, the sound of which initiated the battle.

* * *

**Jerome and The Lion**

A/N- This is a much shorter piece that, actually, was supposed to be in 'As If The Sea'. In some of my earlier write-ups of 'Sea Winds', I was going to have Anamaria give James an object of symbolic value after their 'meeting' on Isla Cruces. I think I decided later that this was unnecessary and so I just scrapped the whole idea entirely. The object in question, however, was inspired by an antique reliquary (basically a painted pendant on a chain) from the 17th century. It was suspected to be from some Spanish vessel of sorts, as it depicted a scene from the bible (obvious catholic influence). The scene was the story of Jerome and The Lion and since the reliquary was so pretty, I decided I'd use it in the story and somehow tie Norrington's personal journey in with the biblical one. Of course, this never really came into fruition, but the one scene that alludes to it is here.

As he considered these thoughts, he began mindlessly toying with a recently received trinket on the desk beside him. It was a reliquary, designed to be strung on a necklace or chain that featured the image of St. Jerome and the Lion. It was Anamaria that had given it to him the night she confessed her feelings. Before they had ventured back into the church ruins, she had placed the object in his palm, closing his fingers around it.

"I want you to have this," she had said in a whisper.

When he asked why, she explained that she'd wanted to give him something to remember their friendship by after he left. She also mentioned that something about the gift reminded her of him, but when he asked her to elucidate on the reasoning for this, she slipped away, back into the encampment.

He supposed she had pilfered it off a ship or Spanish sailor at some point, but that was the least of his confusion. He'd taken the time a few days prior to refresh his memory of St. Jerome's story in an effort to reveal why Anamaria might have perceived a likeness.

The story began with a stray lion with a thorn in its paw wandering into a monastery. While the other monks fled in terror, Jerome treated the beast as though it was a guest. It was he who removed the thorn and healed the lion. The lion, indebted to Jerome, joined the monastery as a tame pet. God then revealed to Jerome that lion had been sent to them as more or less of a gift.

Armed with this knowledge, Jerome assigned the lion a duty; to protect and lead the donkey of the monastery that delivered wood.

* * *

XD And that's it! So basically, check out 'As If The Sea Should Part' if you liked this story. I'd love your critical feedback! Thanks a bunch for all of your encouragement, dear readers!


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